CHAPTER XII
DAVID FACES DEATH
Feeling his way back to where the hanging branches of a small hemlock promised to screen him from the trail, David sank to the ground with a shivering sigh of relief. While it might be that a long and weary vigil awaited him, yet to be able to stretch his aching body and relax his taut muscles was a blissful thing. When his breathing had quieted, the sounds of the night, unheard or unnoted while he journeyed, came to him eerily: the faint stirrings of small animals, the scratching noise of a raccoon or hedgehog clawing his way up a tree-trunk, a brief flurry in the brush a little way off and the agonized squeal of some tiny victim surprised by the slayer, and, suddenly, shudderingly near, the long-drawn howl of a wolf.
The latter sound brought to the boy a realization of his unarmed condition. Not even a knife did he have. He sought within his reach for some branch that might serve for a club, but found nothing. After all, it mattered little, for it was not wolves but Indians
