"Game afoot," said Sam in a low voice.
"Bet I heered him first," piped Guy.
Yan's first thought was to rush pell-mell after the Dog. He had often
read of the hunt following furiously the baying of the Hounds, but
Caleb restrained him.
"Hold on, boy; plenty of time. Don't know yet what it is."
For Turk, like most frontier Hounds, would run almost any trail--had
even been accused of running on his own--and it rested with those who
knew him best to discover from his peculiar style of tonguing just
what the game might be. But they waited long and patiently without
getting another bay from the Hound. Presently a rustling was heard and
Turk came up to his master and lay down at his feet.
"Go ahead, Turk, put him up," but the Dog stirred not. "Go ahead," and
Caleb gave him a rap with a small stick. The Dog dodged away, but lay
down again, panting.
"What was it, Mr. Clark?" demanded Yan.
"Don't hardly know. Maybe he only spiked himself on a snag. But this
is sure; there's no Coons here to-night. There won't be after this. We
come too early, and it's too hot for the Dog, anyway."
"We could cross the creek and go into Boyle's bush," suggested the
Woodpecker.
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