Paul pressed up by the side of Henry.
"Do you think we shall have to go on all night, this way?" he asked.
"Wasn't Mr. Pennypacker right, when he said we were out of danger?"
"No, the schoolmaster was wrong," replied Henry. "Tom Ross knows more
about the woods and what is likely to happen in them than Mr.
Pennypacker could know in all his life, if he were to live a thousand
years. It's every man to his own trade, and it's Tom's trade that we
need now."
After hearing these sage words of youth Paul asked no more questions,
but he and Henry kept side by side throughout the night, that is, when
neither of them was riding, because Henry, like all the others, now took
turns on horseback. Twice they crossed small streams and once a larger
one, where they exercised the utmost caution to keep their precious salt
from getting wet. Fortunately the great pack saddles were a protection,
and they emerged on the other side with both salt and powder dry.
When the night was thickest, in the long, dark hour just before the
dawn, Henry and Paul, who were again side by side, heard a faint,
distant cry. It was a low, wailing note that was not unpleasant,
softened by the spaces over which it came.
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