“Must be Mushrat,” whispered Sam to the unspoken query of his friend.

A loud, far “Oho-oho-oho” was familiar to both as the cry of the Horned Owl, but a strange long wail rang out from the trees overhead.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t know,” was all they whispered, and both felt very uncomfortable.  The solemnity and mystery of the night was on them and weighing more heavily with the waning light.  The feeling was oppressive.  Neither had courage enough to propose going to the house or their camping would have ended.  Sam arose and stirred the fire, looked around for more wood, and, seeing none, he grumbled (to himself) and stepped outside in the darkness to find some.  It was not till long afterward that he admitted having had to dare himself to step out into the darkness.  He brought in some sticks and fastened the door as tightly as possible.  The blazing fire in the teepee was cheering again.  The boys perhaps did not realize that there was actually a tinge of homesickness in their mood, yet both were thinking of the comfortable circle at the house.  The blazing fire smoked a little, and Sam said: 

“Kin you fix that to draw?  You know more about it ’an me.”

Yan now forced himself to step outside.  The wind was rising and had changed.  He swung the smoke poles till the vent was quartering down, then hoarsely whispered, “How’s that?”

“That’s better,” was the reply in a similar tone, though there was no obvious difference yet.

He went inside with nervous haste and fastened up the entrance.

“Let’s make a good fire and go to bed.”

So they turned in after partly undressing, but not to sleep for hours.  Yan in particular was in a state of nervous excitement.  His heart had beaten violently when he went out that time, and even now that mysterious dread was on him.  The fire was the one comfortable thing.  He dozed off, but started up several times at some slight sound.  Once it was a peculiar “Tick, tick, scr-a-a-a-a-pe, lick-scra-a-a-a-a-a-pe,” down the teepee over his head. “A Bear” was his first notion, but on second thoughts he decided it was only a leaf sliding down the canvas.  Later he was roused by a “Scratch, scratch, scratch” close to him.  He listened silently for some time.  This was no leaf; it was an animal! Yes, surely—­it was a Mouse.  He slapped the canvas violently and “hissed” till it went away, but as he listened he heard again that peculiar wail in the tree-tops.  It almost made his hair sit up.  He reached out and poked the fire together into a blaze.  All was still and in time he dozed off.  Once more he was wide awake in a flash and saw Sam sitting up in bed listening.

[Illustration:  “Where’s the axe?”]

“What is it, Sam?” he whispered.

“I dunno.  Where’s the axe?”

“Right here.”

“Let me have it on my side.  You kin have the hatchet.”