He was crouched by the side of a great oak, his form blurring with its
trunk, his eyes, now used to the darkness, searching every covert in
front--he knew that Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross would watch to right and
left.
The cry of the wolf did not come again, save for a lone note, now much
nearer. But when its sound passed through the forest, Henry Ware's form
seemed to become a little more taut and he leaned a little further
forward. Beyond the slight bending motion he did not stir.
He still saw nothing and heard nothing, but that voice which was his sixth
sense was calling to him more loudly than ever, and he was ready to
respond.
In front of him, thirty yards away, lay a thicket or undergrowth, and he
watched it incessantly. It seemed to him now that he knew every bush and
briar and vine. Presently a briar moved, and then a bush, and then a
vine, but they moved against the wind, and the sharp eyes of the watcher
saw it. He sank a little lower and the muzzle of his rifle stole forward.
He made not the slightest sound, and good eyes, only a few yards away,
could not have separated his dark figure from that of the tree trunk.
The same briar and bush moved a third time, and, as before, against the
wind.
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352