huddered. Tom's weird theory chimed in with his own feelings. The
fourth dog, the one that had hid from the bullets, was a phantom,
leading the savages on to vengeance for his dead comrades. Now and then
he still bayed as he kept the trail, but the fleeing five sought in vain
to make him a target for their bullets. Seemingly, he had profited by
the death of his comrades, as his body never showed once among the
foliage. Search as they would with the sharpest of eyes, none of the
five could catch the faintest glimpse of him.

"He's a ghost, shore," said Tom Ross. "No real, ordinary dog would keep
under cover that way. I reckon we couldn't kill him if we hit him, 'less
we had a silver bullet."

The savages themselves uttered the war cry only two or three times, but
it was enough to show that with the aid of the dog they followed
relentlessly. The situation of the five had become alarming to the last
degree. They had intended to pursue, not to be pursued. Now they were
fleeing for their lives, and there would be no escape, unless they could
shake off the most terrible of all that followed--the dog. And at least
one of their number, Silent Tom Ross, was convinced thoroughly that the
dog could not be killed, unless they had the unobtainable--a silver
bullet. In moments of danger, superstition can take a strong hold, and
Paul too, felt a cold chill at his heart.

Their course now took them through a rolling country, clad heavily in
forest, but without much undergrowth, and they made good speed. They
came to numerous brooks, and sometimes they waded in them a little
distance, but they did not have much confidence in this familiar device.
It might shake off the warriors for a while, but not that terrible dog
which, directed by the Indians, would run along the bank and pick up the
trail again in a few seconds. Yet hope rose once. For a long time they
heard neither bark nor war cry, and they paused under the branches of a
great oak. They were not really tired, as they had run at an easy gait,
but they were too wise to let pass a chance for rest. Henry was hopeful
that in some manner they had shaken off the dog, but there was no such
belief in the heart of the silent one. Tom Ross had taken out his
hunting knife and with his back to the others was cutting at something.
Henry gave him a quick glance, but he did not deem it wise to ask him
anything. The next moment, all thought of Tom was put out of his mind by
the deep baying of t