"Best not go far from camp alone, sir. 'T isn't above safe
hereabouts," he said in a low voice. I noticed that he glanced back
over his shoulder as he spoke.
"But why?" I objected. "There's nothing in these woods to be afraid
of."
"Come back to camp and I'll tell you. It's warmer there," he said. And
I followed to hear a strange story,--how "Andy there" was sitting on a
stump, smoking his pipe in the twilight, when he was struck and cut on
the head from behind; and when he sprang up to look, there was nothing
there, nor any track save his own in the snow. The next night
Gillie's fur cap had been snatched from his head, and when _he_ turned
there was nobody in sight; and when he burst into camp, with all his
wits frightened out of him, he could scarcely speak, and his face was
deathly white. Other uncanny things had happened since, in the same
way, and coupled with a bad accident on the river, which the men
thought was an omen, they had put the camp into such a state of
superstitious fear that no one ventured alone out of doors after
nightfall.
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