He was a prisoner, lying helpless among his sleeping captors.
Silvertip and the guard had fled into the woods, frightened by the
appalling moan which they believed sounded their death-knell. And
Joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. What could
have caused that sound? He fought off the numbing chill that once
again began to creep over him. He was wide-awake now; his head was
clear, and he resolved to retain his senses. He told himself there
could be nothing supernatural in that wind, or wail, or whatever it
was, which had risen murmuring from out the forest-depths.
Yet, despite his reasoning, Joe could not allay his fears. That
thrilling cry haunted him. The frantic flight of an Indian
brave--nay, of a cunning, experienced chief--was not to be lightly
considered. The savages were at home in these untracked wilds.
Trained from infancy to scent danger and to fight when they had an
equal chance they surely would not run without good cause.
Joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. He had no idea
what. It might be the fretting night wind, or a stealthy, prowling,
soft-footed beast, or a savage alien to these wild Indians, and
wilder than they by far. The chirp of a bird awoke the stillness.
Night had given way to morning. Welcoming the light that was chasing
away the gloom, Joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief.
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