“Did you kill them?” gasped Bub, beginning to feel a trifle faint.
“No luck,” grumbled Charlie. “Kill each other. They hunt for someone; you, mebbe. They separate. White man see me, but I hide before he fire. Then Nick come through and White man think Nick me and fire. Nick dying git mad and fire back. Both dead. Good shooting.”
“Charlie, I want to shake hands,” humbly announced Stanley as they pursued their way to a point where strains of a logging song were emanating.
“Good boy,” said Charlie, clasping his hand quickly. “No ’fraid of fox, eh?” And his eyes shone With merriment for a moment.
Then he turned to Bub and slapped his shoulder. “This young fox. Grow to old fox. Smart boy.” The three understood by this that Charlie was paying Bub an elaborate compliment; he meant he would some time be as good a woodsman as Abner. The veteran, too, felt not a little pleased to be pointed out as an example.
Just as the sun sank and left the woods in darkness several campfires twinkled invitingly ahead, and with a loud growling noise Abner broke from the others and dashed into the
