"Good night," he called, when he had pulled his blankets up. Guided by a hope that flooded his heart with tremulous anticipations, he held out his hand in the darkness toward her. As if by a miracle, her own hand came stealing into his. No man could tell by what unity of longing they had acted: but neither seemed surprised to find the other's, waiting in the darkness. It was simply the Mystery that all men see and no man understands. He held the little hand in his for just a breath, as a man might hold a holy thing that a prophet had blessed. Then he let it go. "Good night, Bill," she told him sleepily. In the hours of refreshing slumber that lasted full into the next morning there was but one curious circumstance. In the full light of morning it seemed to him that he heard the faint prick of a rifle, far away. The truth was that for all his heavy sleep, some of his guardian senses were awake to receive impressions, and the sound was a reality. It was curiously woven into the fabric of his dreams. There were four shots, one swiftly upon another. Four,--and the figure four had a puzzling, yet sinister significance to his mind. He didn't know what it was: he had a confused sense of some sort of an inner warning, an impression of impending danger and treachery. Who was it that had held up four fingers somewhere in his experience, and what manner of signal had it been? But Bill didn't fully waken. His dreams ran on, confused and troubled. XXVII The same rifle shots that brought bad dreams to Bill had a much more lucid meaning for Joe Robinson and Pete the Breed, the two Indians that were occupying Harold's cabin. The wind bore toward them from Harold's new abode, the rifle was of heavy caliber, and the sound came clear and unmistakable through the stillness. They looked from one to the other. "Four shots," Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal." Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick," he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga--after supplies." "Yes--but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfish character of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. There was a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face. "That means--big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go." Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Some of these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmen of the region,--for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of their weapons. The red race--at least such representatives of it as lived in Clearwater--was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. It was noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, and Pete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt. Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.