a little, thinking of the fool propensity some horses had for entering every open gate or bars they ran across.
At that juncture several hounds began to whoop from their shelter under the house, and came pouring out with their mouthy clamor. The door opened as Simpson rode by, revealing for an instant a man. This householder, taking no chances, shut the door after him quickly as he stepped outside. From the glimpse Simpson caught of him he knew the man was an Indian.
"Who's that?" the man inquired, his hail a challenge.
Simpson made no reply. The dogs were at the heels of his horse, setting up a savage yowling. Simpson heard the man, this time much nearer the road, demanding who he was and where he was going. He rode on in silence. All the information he could give that man would not enlighten him, and any he might get from the Indian certainly would not do him any good. Here the road was clear, the landscape open, and it was fairly light in comparison with the hampering blackness of the woods.
On past the place the horses galloped, splashing through puddles, setting up a racket that would give an experienced ear a very good estimate of the number in that outfit. The dogs followed, giving their tongues full liberty and, altogether, it was rather a lively event for a rainy night on that forest-smothered road. Simpson knew he was leaving a suspicious, unsatisfied Indian standing beside the rail fence in front of his little log hut, and one who was not likely to remain in passive speculation on the meaning of that troop of horses, urged on by a silent driver, passing his door along that unfrequented way.
The noisy charge of the hounds had thrown the horses
