JUST BEFORE DAWN, THE STORM BLEW ITSELF OUT WITH ONE last angry roar. It started snowing.
A frozen silence settled over the canebrake. Back in the thick timber of the river bottoms, the sharp snapping of frozen limbs could be heard.
The tall stalks of wild cane looked exhausted from the hellish night. They were drooping and bending from the weight of the frozen sleet.
I climbed out of the deep gully and listened for my dogs. I couldn’t hear them.
Just as I started back down the bank, I heard something. I listened. Again I heard the sound.
Papa was watching me. “Can you hear the dogs?” he asked.
“No, not the dogs,” I said, “but I can hear something else.” “What does it sound like?” he asked.
“Like someone whooping,” I said. Papa and the judge hurried up the bank. We heard the sound again.
It was coming from a different direction. “The first time I heard it,” I said, “it was over that way.”
“It’s the men from camp,” the judge said. “They’re searching for us.” We started whooping.
The searchers answered. Their voices came from all directions. The first one to reach us was Mr. Kyle.
He looked haggard and tired. He asked if everything was all right.
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