“What was it, boy?  I heard it, but what was it?”

“I—­I—­don’t know,” he gasped; “only it was at the g-g-grave.”

“Gosh!  I heard it, all right,” and Caleb showed no little uneasiness, but added, “We’ll be back in camp in ten minutes.”

He took Yan’s trembling hand and led him for a little while, but he was all right when he came to the blazed trail.  Caleb stepped ahead, groping in the darkness.

Yan now found voice to say, “I got the stone all right, and I wrote my name on the grave, too.”

“Good boy!  You’re the stuff!” was the admiring response.

They were very glad to see that there was a fire in the teepee when they drew near.  At the edge of the clearing they gave a loud “O-hoo—­O-hoo—­O-hoo-oo,” the Owl cry that they had adopted because it is commonly used by the Indians as a night signal, and they got the same in reply from within.

“All right,” shouted Caleb; “he done it, an’ he’s bully good stuff and gets an uncommon grand coup.”

“Wish I had gone now,” said Guy.  “I could ‘a’ done it just as well as Yan.”

“Well, go on now.”

“Oh, there ain’t any stone to get now for proof.”

“You can write your name on the grave, as I did.”

“Ah, that wouldn’t prove nothin’,” and Guy dropped the subject.

Yan did not mean to tell his adventure that night, but his excitement was evident, and they soon got it out of him in full.  They were a weird-looking crowd as they sat around the flickering fire, experiencing as he told it no small measure of the scare he had just been through.

When he had finished Yan said, “Now, Guy, don’t you want to go and try it?”

“Oh, quit,” said Guy; “I never saw such a feller as you for yammering away on the same subjek.”

Caleb looked at his watch now, as though about to leave, when Yan said: 

“Say, Mr. Clark, won’t you sleep here?  There’s lots o’ room in Guy’s bed.”

“Don’t mind if I do, seem’ it’s late.”

XX

The White Revolver

In the morning Caleb had the satisfaction of eating a breakfast prepared by the son of his enemy, for Sam was cook that day.

The Great Woodpecker expressed the thought of the whole assembly when after breakfast he said:  “Now I want to go and see that grave.  I believe Yan wrote his name on some old cow that was lying down and she didn’t like it and said so out loud!”

They arrived at the spot in a few minutes.  Yes, there it was plainly written on the rude gravestone, rather shaky, but perfectly legible—­“Yan.”

“Pretty poor writing,” was Guy’s remark.

“Well, you sure done it!  Good boy!” said Sam warmly.  “Don’t believe I’d ‘a’ had the grit.”

“Bet I would,” said Guy.

“Here’s where I crossed the ditch.  See my trail in the mud?  Out there is where I heard the yelling.  Let’s see if ghosts make tracks.  Hallo, what the—­”