“What were _you_ doing at the river shore?” Ross returned boldly. The man’s hand flew to his belt. Dimly Douglas discerned the shadowy movement. Bright Wing’s eagle eyes saw it, too; and the sharp click of his flintlock broke the stillness. The man peered in the direction whence the ominous sound came—and his hand dropped to his side, as he answered in a husky voice: “I was jest wanderin’ ’round the camp—I couldn’t sleep. I was goin’ back to my place when y’r dog stopped me. You’d better keep the cross brute tied up o’ nights, ’r somebody ’ll kill him. Git out o’ my way.” And he made a move to leave the spot. “Wait a moment,” Douglas requested. “When you spoke to the dog, your language marked you as an educated gentleman. Explain.” “I don’t have to give no explanations to you ’bout anything—you ain’t no officer,” was the defiant reply. And the fellow stalked away in the darkness. Farley could restrain himself no longer. Hurrying to Douglas’s side, he asked excitedly: “What’s it all mean, Ross?” “I don’t know,” was the truthful answer. “Did you know the feller?” “No—I couldn’t see his face.” “He’s one o’ the soldiers, ain’t he?” “I don’t know, Joe,” Ross replied rather impatiently. “Let’s go back to our places.” As the three friends moved across the inclosed space, toward the site of their camp-fire, they were met by an officer of the guard, who cried angrily: “You men go back to your places and stay there. You know it is against the regulations to stray about the camp at this time of night. The next time you break the rules, I’ll report you.” Farley was ready to fling back an angry retort, but Douglas headed him off with: “We meant no harm, lieutenant. And we thank you for your consideration.” Much mollified, the officer resumed his rounds. In silence the three friends reached their place of bivouac, and, rolling themselves in their blankets, sought repose. But what Ross Douglas had seen and heard rendered him still more wakeful. He racked his brain for a solution of the mystery—but found none. Who was the man he had encountered—and what had he been doing at the river-side? “Treachery of some kind is afoot,” the young scout murmured to himself. “Perhaps I should have caught the mysterious personage and delivered him into the hands of the guard. But what could I have proven—what charge could I have brought against him? And now I’ve not the faintest idea who he was, whence he came, or what was his purpose. He tried to disguise his voice; he altered his language. He sought to conceal his identity—and he succeeded. There’s nothing to do but watch and wait. But black treachery of some kind is among us.” An hour passed. Ross Douglas’s lids were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular. [Illustration] CHAPTER III.