t 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
nearer. But when its sound passed through the forest, Henry Ware's form
seemed to become a little more taut and he leaned a little further
forward. Beyond the slight bending motion he did not stir.

He still saw nothing and heard nothing, but that voice which was his sixth
sense was calling to him more loudly than ever, and he was ready to
respond.

In front of him, thirty yards away, lay a thicket or undergrowth, and he
watched it incessantly. It seemed to him now that he knew every bush and
briar and vine. Presently a briar moved, and then a bush, and then a
vine, but they moved against the wind, and the sharp eyes of the watcher
saw it. He sank a little lower and the muzzle of his rifle stole forward.
He made not the slightest sound, and good eyes, only a few yards away,
could not have separated his dark figure from that of the tree trunk.

The same briar and bush moved a third time, and, as before, against the
wind. It did not escape the notice of Henry Ware. Now he saw a sharp, red
nose appear, and then the shaggy head behind it.

The nose remained--projected and lifted in the air, a-sniff to catch the
fleeting scent of an enemy. Fancy could readily paint the ugly head of the
lank body behind it. But Henry Ware was not deceived for an instant. The
muzzle of the rifle that had been thrust forward, was raised now, and
taking swift aim, he fired.

A wild and terrible cry swelled through the forest. An Indian warrior
sprang to his feet, casting off his guise of a wolfskin, stood perfectly
still for a moment, and then fell headlong among the wet bushes. The cry
came back in many real echoes, the shouts of the warriors who knew now
that there was to be no surprise for them. Their battle cry swelled in
volume, fierce with anger, but Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom Ross were
already running back u