it won't be easy. On second thoughts, Sime, I'm
inclined to chance it the other way. They can't possibly escape us. If
they do take to their horses, they couldn't gallop off beyond reach of
our rifles. We can easily shoot their animals down. Besides, remember
there's two to get mounted on each. We may as well run right up, and
determine the thing at once. I see no difficulty."

"Wheesht!" exclaims Woodley, just as Clancy ceases speaking.

"What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?"

"Don't you, Charley?"

Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the
usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a
sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and
goatsuckers joining in the chorus.

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not
animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?

After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.

One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be
that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's,
while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could
only proceed from the lips of a white man.

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers--to
Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form
conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside
every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the
others to follow him.

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, they
have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they
have been so long gazing.

Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman,
but looks less like one living than dead!

The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the
pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks
flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching,
drag him toward the light.

When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen
before.

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but
for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his
identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon
Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically
pronounces the backwoodsman's name.

"Bill Bosley!" shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord! Pa