“Well, whose Dog is it does it?”

“I don’t know as it’s any Dog, for part of the Sheep was eat each time, they say, though I never seen one o’ them that was killed or I could tell.  It’s more likely a Fox or a Lynx than a Dog.”

There was a long silence, then outside again the hair-lifting screech to which the Dog paid no heed, although the Trapper and the boy were evidently startled and scared.

They made up a blazing fire and turned in silently for the night.

The rain came down steadily, and the wind swept by in gusts.  It was the Banshee’s hour, and two or three times, as they were dropping off, that fearful, quavering human wail, “like a woman in distress,” came from the woods to set their hearts a-jumping, not Caleb and Sam only, but all four.

In the diary which Yan kept of those times each day was named after its event; there was Deer day, Skunk-and-Cat day, Blue Crane day, and this was noted down as the night of the Banshee’s wailing.

Caleb was up and had breakfast ready before the others were fully awake.  They had carefully kept and cleaned the Coon meat, and Caleb made of it a “prairie pie,” in which bacon, potatoes, bread, one small onion and various scraps of food were made important.  This, warmed up for breakfast and washed down with coffee, made a royal meal, and feasting they forgot the fears of the night.

The rain was over, but the wind kept on.  Great blockish clouds were tumbling across the upper sky Yan went out to look for tracks.  He found none but those of raindrops.

The day was spent chiefly about camp, making arrows and painting the teepee.

Again Caleb was satisfied to sleep in the camp.  The Banshee called once that night, and again Turk seemed not to hear, but half an hour later there was a different and much lower sound outside, a light, nasal “wow.”  The boys scarcely heard it, but Turk sprang up with bristling hair, growling, and forcing his way out under the door, he ran, loudly barking, into the woods.

“He’s after something now, all right,” said his master; “and now he’s treed it,” as the Dog began his high-pitched yelps.

“Good old Dog; he’s treed the Banshee,” and Yan rushed out into the darkness.  The others followed, and they found Turk barking and scratching at a big leaning Beech, but could get no hint of what the creature up it might be like.

“How does he usually bark for a Banshee?” asked the Woodpecker, but got no satisfaction, and wondering why Turk should bother himself so mightily over a little squeal and never hear that awful scream, they retired to camp.