He was on the point of scraping the fire together, to make it last as long as possible, when an unexpected whistle broke upon his ears. He sprang to the front of the shelter and listened intently. The whistle was one he knew well, and the whistler was rendering an old English air, called "Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket," an air which we to-day call "Yankee Doodle." "Dave!" shouted the young hunter, and set up a wild yell. "Dave! Where are you?" "Is that you, Henry?" came from the edge of the hollow. "Yes. Look out, or you'll get a tumble as I did." "White Buffalo knows the trail," came in the voice of the Indian chief. "Hullo! is that you, White Buffalo? Very well, but be careful." Torches in hand, Dave and White Buffalo moved forward slowly. But the Indian knew exactly what he was doing, and soon he and the youth with him were at the bottom of the hollow in safety. Then Dave ran forward to greet his cousin. "Are you badly hurt?" he questioned. "No. I'm all right, Dave, although I got two nasty tumbles." "Sam was afraid you had been killed. He searched all around, but couldn't find you." "I was foolish not to wait until Sam came down to the water course. I started to get out alone and got into this pickle. Why didn't you shout when you came up?" "We saw the fire but White Buffalo thought there might be some unfriendly Indians or trappers around. So then I thought of my old whistle. I knew you would recognize it." Henry had to tell his story, and then Dave asked him if he was well enough to return to the camp without delay. "They are all anxious about you, especially father and Sam," he added. "To be sure, I'll go back to camp. It's no fun staying here. I'm quite hungry, too." "Then you must have something before we leave." The meal was soon disposed of, and led by White Buffalo the party left the hollow and proceeded through the forest. It was a long, hard journey, but neither of the youths minded it, both being thankful that the adventure had terminated so happily. When Henry reached camp once more he was hailed with great joy by James Morris and Sam Barringford. The uncle embraced his nephew, and the old frontiersman gripped Henry's hand until the bones fairly cracked. "I have been more than worried ever since Sam came back with his sad tale," said James Morris. "In the future, Henry, you must be very careful when you go hunting; otherwise I shall not want to leave you out of my sight." "I'd give my right hand ruther than see ye kilt," said Barringford huskily. "Next time we go out I reckon as how we'll keep close together." "It's strange you didn't get on my trail," returned Henry. "You are usually a good one at such things." "The downpour washed out the tracks," said James Morris. "I'm not so good at such things as White Buffalo is," answered Sam Barringford bluntly. "He is born to it, and, White Buffalo, it does you credit."