When he could venture it
without disturbing his companions, he rose to a sitting posture, and,
after squatting for a while in meditation, got on his feet, picked up
his coat and moccasins, and, stealthily as an Indian, crept out of the
hut.
The rolling music among the pine-tops had died down; only at long
intervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearly
midday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling sunlight
which fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the clearing
beyond the shadow of the pines.
Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tiger
could be seen, though Dol's eyes sought for them wistfully. But
something caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering through
the pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashioned
muzzle-loading shot-gun, which leaned against a corner of the hut. An
ancient, glistening powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hung
above it.
Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, and
examined it closely.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76