While the boy stood there, his heart palpitating with fright, he suddenly saw a bright streak, like a sliver of flame, shoot through the trees in front of him. Accompanying it there was the sharp report of a rifle, followed by a wild howl of agony. By the combined light of the fire and the moon Roger saw the cat leap high in the air. There was a crackle of broken tree limbs, as the beast fell back. Then something else stirred in the woods, and into the circle of the blaze stalked a tall dark man whose face exhibited the features of an Indian, and who, after a glance at the boy, uttered one word: "Sagoola!" CHAPTER IX OUT OF THE WOODS For nearly a minute Roger stood and stared at the Indian, who, despite his modern clothes was yet sufficiently a redman to make the boy wonder how in the world he ever came there. On his side the newcomer glanced at Roger by the light of the flickering fire, and a smile came on his bronzed face. "Sagoola! Sagoola!" he repeated. "How do!" "Oh!" said Roger, faintly comprehending that his companion had only greeted him in the Indian tongue. "Oh, how do you do yourself?" "Fine--good," answered the Indian. "I'm glad you came along just when you did," went on Roger. "The wild-cat had me down, and I thought I was a goner." "Hu!" grunted the redman. "Smart boy. Light fire. Wild-cat heap 'fraid fire. Ole Johnny Green shoot 'um." "Johnny Green?" repeated Roger in an inquiring tone. "Yep. Me ole Johnny Green. My boy, he young Johnny Green." "Why, I thought Indians had different names from that," said the boy. "Names like Yellow Tail, Eagle Eye, and Big Thunder." "Hu! Good names wild Injun. Me tame Injun. Have tame name. Live to Reservation at Castle. Where yo' from?" "My name is Roger Anderson," and he spoke slowly, so his new friend would have no trouble in understanding, "I am staying with my uncle, Bert Kimball, at Cardiff, and got lost in the woods. I was riding with my cousin, and the horse ran away." "Bert Kimball yo' say yo' uncle?" "Yes." "Over by Cardiff?" "Yes, do you know him?" "Sure, sartin. Bert an' me good frens. Yo' loss?" "Well, I guess that's what you'd call it; I'm lost," admitted Roger, whose spirits had improved very much in the last few minutes. He was no longer in fear of the wild-cat, and, as for the Indian, he thought, rightly, that he need be in no worry as to his intentions, though it was the first time he knew how near he was to an Indian encampment.