This was temporary relief, but left no suggestion of complete escape.
He lay there till nearly noon suffering more and more from the cramped
position and thirst, and utterly puzzled as to the next move.
“When ye don't like whar ye air, git up without any fuss, and go whar
ye want to be,” was what Sylvanne once said to him, and it came to Rolf
with something like a comic shock. The soldiers were busy in the woods
and around the forges. In half an hour it would be noon and they might
come back to eat.
Rolf rose without attempting any further concealment, then stopped, made
a bundle of the stuff that had sheltered him and, carrying this on his
shoulder, strode boldly across the field toward the woods.
His scout uniform was inconspicuous; the scouts on duty at the mill saw
only one of themselves taking a bundle of hay round to the stables.
He reached the woods absolutely unchallenged. After a few yards in its
friendly shade, he dropped the thorny bundle and strode swiftly toward
his own camp. He had not gone a hundred yards before a voice of French
type cried “'Alt,” and he was face to face with a sentry whose musket
was levelled at him.
A quick glance interchanged, and each gasped out the other's name.
“Francois la Colle!”
“Rolf Kittering! Mon Dieu! I ought to shoot you, Rolf; I cannot, I
cannot! But run, run! I'll shoot over your head,” and his kindly eyes
filled with tears.
Rolf needed no second hint; he ran like a deer, and the musket ball
rattled the branches above his shoulders.
In a few minutes other soldiers came running and from La Colle they
heard of the hostile spy in camp.
“I shoot; I t'ink maybe I not hit eem; maybe some brood dere? No, dat
netting.”
There were both runners and trackers in camp. They were like bloodhounds
and they took up the trail of the fugitive. But Rolf was playing his own
game now; he was “Flying Kittering.” A crooked trail is hard to follow,
and, going at the long stride that had made his success, he left many
a crook and turn. Before two miles I they gave it up and the fugitive
coming to the river drank a deep and cooling draught, the first he had
had that day. Five miles through is the dense forest that lies between
La Colle and the border. He struck a creek affluent of the Richelieu
River and followed to its forks, which was the place of rendezvous with
Quonab.
It was evening as he drew near and after long, attentive listening he
gave the cry of the barred owl:
The answer came: a repetition of the last line, and a minute later the
two scouts were together.
As they stood, they were startled by a new, sudden answer, an exact
repetition of the first call. Rolf had recovered his rifle from its
hiding place and instantly both made ready for some hostile prowler;
then after a long silence he gave the final wail line “hoooo-aw” and
that in the woods means, “Who are you?”
Promptly the reply came:
“Wa wah wa wah Wa wah wa hoooo-aw.”
But this was the wrong reply. It should have been only the last half.
The imitation was perfect, except, perhaps, on the last note, which
was a trifle too human. But the signal was well done; it was an expert
calling, either an Indian or some thoroughly seasoned scout; yet Quonab
was not deceived into thinking it an owl. He touched his cheek and
his coat, which, in the scout sign language, means “red coat,” i. e.,
Britisher.
Rolf and his partner got silently out of sight, each with his rlile
cocked and ready to make a hole in any red uniform or badge that might
show itself. Then commenced a very peculiar duel, for evidently the
enemy was as clever as themselves and equally anxious to draw them out
of cover.
Wa-wah-wa hooo-aw called the stranger, giving the right answer in the
wrong place. He was barely a hundred yards off, and, as the two strained
their senses to locate him, they heard a faint click that told of his
approach.
Rolf turned his head and behind a tree uttered again the Wa-wah-a--hoo
which muffled by his position would convince the foe that he was
retreating. The answer came promptly and much nearer:
Wa--wah--wa--hoooo-aw.
Good! the medicine was working. So Rolf softened his voice still more,
while Quonab got ready to shoot.
The Wa--wa--hooo-aw that came in answer this time was startlingly clear
and loud and nearly perfect in intonation, but again betrayed by the
human timbre of the aw. A minute or two more and they would reach a
climax.
After another wait, Rolf muffled his voice and gave the single hooo-aw,
and a great broad-winged owl came swooping through the forest, alighted
on a tree overhead, peered about, then thrilled them with his weird:
Wa--hoo--wa--boo
Wa--hoo--wa--hooooooooo-aw, the last note with the singular human
quality that had so completely set them astray.