The log or raft, as it might be termed, had floated very quietly
down-stream for about half an hour, when the wonderfully acute ears of
the trapper detected danger.

'Thar be some of the skunks that are creep-in 'long shore,' said he;
'you'd better run in under this yar tree and hold fast awhile.'

The warning was heeded. Just below them, the luxuriant branches of an
oak, dipped in the current, formed an impenetrable screen. As the log,
guided thither, floated beneath this, Mickey and Ethan both caught
hold of the branches and held themselves motionless.

'Now wait till it's dark, and then thar'll be no fear of the
varmints,' added the trapper.

''Sh! I haars sumfin'!' whispered the Irishman

'What is it?' asked Ethan.

'How does I know till yees kaaps still?'

'It's the reds goin' long the banks,' said the trapper.

The words were yet in his mouth, when the voice of one Indian was
heard calling to another. Neither Mickey nor Ethan had the remotest
idea of the meaning of the words uttered, but the trapper told them
that they were inquiring of each other whether anything had been
discovered of more fugitives. The answer being in the negative, our
friends considered their present position safe.