As frightened children huddle close together, around the evening fire, at the thought of the dreadful ghost, so these two stern-featured men, whose faces had never blanched when the howls of the myriad red-skins, who were closing around them, sounded in their ears, now instinctively sat closer together, and looked off furtively in the darkness, as if in mortal dread of some coming and appalling monster. But this sudden exhibition of fear was mostly temporary in its manifestations. As each clutched his trusty rifle, and recalled the terrible weapon of which he was master, their confidence almost, but not entirely, returned. “If that thing _does_ come,” finally spoke old Stebbins, in his deliberate but emphatic manner, “and I can get the chance, I’m going to put a rifle-ball into it, smash and clean.” “S’posen it doesn’t hurt it.” “That’s onpossible.” “Dunno,” persisted Black Tom, “from what we’ve hearn of it, they say it don’t mind our guns.” “Ef it can stand a shot from _my_ gun, then thar ain’t no use in talking,” was the response of the old hunter. “Don’t you mind what Stumpy Sam told us about it?” asked Stebbins, some minutes afterward. “I didn’t hear what he told _you_; you see’d him first.” “It was two years ago, come the middle of trappin’ season, when Sam said he and three other fellers see’d him. It warn’t a great ways from hyar, and they war riding up one side of a ridge, when jist as they reached the top they met the _thing_, coming up t’other side. They had a good sight of it, and the whole four fired right into it.” “Wal?” “It give a sort of a snuff, turned tail toward ’em, and walked away, as though they hadn’t done nothin’ more nor sneeze at it.” “That’s Sam’s story,” replied Tom. “I allers b’l’eved he told a thunderin’ lie about it, ’cause why, thar ain’t _no animile_ that could stand four rifle-bullets right into his face.” “That’s what I say,” assented Stebbins. “Sam and the rest of them fellers must have been so scared, (though it wouldn’t do to tell ’em so,) that they didn’t hit the critter at all, and that’s what makes me kinder want to draw bead on it, and see what it’ll do afterward.” “But I say, Steb., now s’pose you do get a crack at it, and it don’t make no difference at all; what then?” “Why,” fairly whispered the old hunter, in his shuddering earnestness, “then I’ll know it’s a _spook_!” That was a dreaded word, for it touched the tender point in a brave but ignorant man’s character. Strong in the face of real, tangible danger, they were like children before a peril which they could not comprehend. Both of these hunters had sent their ounce of lead crashing through the heart-strings of the buffalo and grizzly bear, a hundred yards distant, and they were warranted in believing that no living creature could face such “music” and live.