He listened now to the sounds of the forest. The soft breeze
fluttering among the leaves, the rain-call of the tree frog, the caw
of crows from distant hilltops, the sweet songs of the thrush and
oriole, were blended together naturally, harmoniously.
But suddenly the hunter raised his head. A note, deeper than the
others, a little too strong, came from far down the shaded hollow.
To Wetzel's trained ear it was a discord. He manifested no more than
this attention, for the birdcall was the signal he had been
awaiting. He whistled a note in answer that was as deep and clear as
the one which had roused him.
Moments passed. There was no repetition of the sound. The songs of
the other birds had ceased. Besides Wetzel there was another
intruder in the woods.
Mose lifted his shaggy head and growled. The hunter patted the dog.
In a few minutes the figure of a tall man appeared among the laurels
down the slope. He stopped while gazing up at the ledge. Then, with
noiseless step, he ascended the ridge, climbed the rocky ledge, and
turned the corner of the stone to face Wetzel. The newcomer was
Jonathan Zane.
"Jack, I expected you afore this," was Wetzel's greeting.
"I couldn't make it sooner," answered Zane. "After we left
Williamson and separated, I got turned around by a band of several
hundred redskins makin' for the Village of Peace.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306