Though they
hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone
which made them cautious.
Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible
meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of
branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager
watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the
strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of
some grave, unseen danger.
And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long
march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened
somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the
forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own
wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase
which kept recurring in his mind--all had the effect of conjuring up
giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until
this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the
darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom
forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this
mysterious foe--the "Wind of Death."
Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early
morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the
west.
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