“I do not see what there is to laugh at,” he remarked, reprovingly. “If it’s a laughing matter to know that there are Injins all about you, why you must laugh.” “Your adventure with the Indian, Nat, and the singular load in your rifle appears to me to be a funny matter, and I trust you will pardon me if----” “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t put it in there? It was the Injin’s work.” And to this day Nat cannot be made to believe that he was instrumental in introducing the pipe into his gun. After a few more unimportant remarks, the conversation ceased. Nat’s adventure began to appear to me in a different light from that in which I had viewed it at first. I doubted not but that he was perfectly honest and truthful in what he said. But why, when exposed to the will of the savage, did he escape unscathed? Why did the latter stand fearless and harmless before him? And what meant these strange signs, these “footprints,” which were becoming visible around us? Matters were assuming a puzzling form. We were being environed by Indians without any evidence of hostility upon their part. What meant it? Surely there was a meaning too deep and hidden for us to divine as yet. Suddenly Nat spoke. “Don’t you remember the canoe? We were going to hunt for that to-day!” “Ah! how did I forget that? But had we not better wait till Biddon returns?” “No; let us go at once. Hark! what’s that?” I held my breath, as the distant report of a rifle reached our ears. The next instant came a sound, faint and far away yet clear and distinct--a horrid, unearthly sound, as the cry of a being in mortal agony! CHAPTER VI. STILL IN THE DARK--THE CANOE AGAIN. For a moment we stood breathless, paralyzed and speechless. Then our eyes sought each other with a look of fearful inquiry. “Was that Biddon’s voice?” I asked, in a faint whisper. “I don’t know. There it is again!” And again came that wild, howling shriek of such agony as made our blood curdle within us. “_It is his voice!_ Let us hasten to his aid,” I exclaimed, catching my rifle, and springing out. Nat followed closely, his gun having been reloaded. The cry came from up the river and toward it we dashed, scrambling and tearing through the brush and undergrowth, like two maddened animals, heedless of what the consequence might be. Several times we halted and listened, but heard nothing save our own panting breasts and leaping hearts. On again we dashed, looking hurriedly about us, until I knew we had ascended as high as could be the author of that startling cry. Here we paused and listened. No one was to be seen. I turned toward Nat, standing behind me, and directly behind him I saw Biddon slowly approaching. “What are you doin’ here?” he asked, as he came up. “Was not that your voice which I just heard?” “I rather reckon it wan’t. When you hear Bill Biddon bawl out in that way, jist let me know, will yer?” “What under the sun was it?” I asked then, greatly relieved.