moment by these cries, but it was not possible now.

"It must be a gathering of the southern tribes," he said, "and I imagine
that Braxton Wyatt is with them, giving them advice. Sol, suppose that you
go to the right and Tom to the left. I'll stay in the center, and if any
one of us sees an enemy he's to shoot at it and rouse the camp."

The two were gone in an instant, and Henry was left alone. That instant
all the old, primeval instincts, so powerful in him, were aroused. His
sixth sense, the sense of danger, was speaking to him in a voice that he
could not but hear. There, too, was the quaver of the wolf. All the
signals of alarm were set, and he resolved that he should be the first to
see danger when It showed its head.

The clouds piled in heavier masses in the sky, and the darkness thickened.
The wind blew lightly and its sound among the boughs and leaves was a
long, plaintive sigh that had in it a tone like the cry of a woman. The
rain came only in gusts, but when it struck it was sharp and cold. The
trees stood out, black and ill-defined, like skeletons. But the forest,
its wet, its chill, and its loneliness, had no effect upon the attuned
mind of Henry Ware. He was in his native element, and every nerve in him
thrilled with the knowledge that he would rise to meet the crisis,
whatever it might be.

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