“Oh, I don’t mean to be a common hobo. I read the other day that there are lots of people in the country yet who make a good living by hunting. I’d like that. I like to hunt. I enjoy shooting squirrels and birds and things, and I know it would be great sport killing big game. I’d enjoy perforating a grizzly bear and then cutting its throat with my hunting-knife.” “Oh, that would be fine!” came sarcastically from Stark. “But it would not be such sport if you happened to wound the bear and he got you in a corner. I believe grizzlies are somewhat dangerous under such circumstances.” “Oh, I wouldn’t mind the danger!” asserted Crauthers. “That would be part of the sport. I’m not afraid——” Then he stopped short, for through the woods rang a long-drawn, lonely cry, like that of some prowling animal. Crauthers turned pale and showed symptoms of agitation. “What was that?” he whispered. The others were startled. “Sounded like the cry of a wolf or a wildcat,” muttered Hogan. The wind rose, rushed through the tree tops and died away. As they sat there listening, the doleful cry was repeated, and this time it sounded much nearer than before. The thing was approaching! CHAPTER XX—DONE IN THE DARK One who has never been in the woods at night and heard such a strange, awesome, blood-chilling sound cannot understand the shuddery feeling that creeps over the flesh of the listener. In his veins Crauthers seemed to feel his blood turning to ice-water. His heart stood still when the second cry came, then leaped and pounded so violently that there was a pain in his breast. “There’s one of your wild animals, Mark!” said Stark, who was not a little nervous himself, although he wished to hide the fact. “For the Lord’s sake keep still!” breathed Crauthers, his dark teeth knocking together tremulously as he uttered the words. “What can it be?” “Here’s your chance to hunt a wild animal,” said Hogan. “Go out and tackle it.” “Why, you know I haven’t a weapon!” “Bunol will lend you his knife.” “No,” said the Spaniard. “The knife I have not.” “Haven’t even a knife?” gasped Crauthers. “I’ve got a revolver, but I didn’t bring it. Great Scott! not one of us is armed! What if we are attacked?” “Clubs, fellows!” said Hogan, as he began to pull over the little pile of wood. “Out with the fire!” sibilated Crauthers, “That’s what has attracted the thing.” Stark grasped him. “Let the fire burn,” he said. “Haven’t you read how it will hold real wolves at bay?” “That’s no wolf!” said Hogan. “It may be a wildcat, but there are no wolves in these parts.” By this time the boys had each secured a club. The wind had lulled, and silence lay on the woods. Once more the cry came to their ears, and this time it was even nearer. But now there seemed something strangely human about it. “Listen!” urged Bunol. He placed his fingers to his lips and blew the signal of the Wolf Gang, a peculiar whistle that cut shrilly through the night.