He listened.

From far back over the trail he had followed there came a lonely, plaintive, almost pleading cry.
"'Ello--'ello--'ello!" It sounded like a distant human greeting, but Rod knew that it was the awakening night cry of what Wabi called the "man owl." It was weirdly human-like; and the echoes came softly, and more softly, until ghostly voices seemed to be whispering in the blackness about him.
"'Ello--'ello--'ello!" The boy shivered and laid his rifle across his knees.

There was tremendous comfort in the rifle.

Rod fondled it with his fingers, and two or three times he felt as though he would almost like to talk to it.
Only those who have gone far into the silence and desolation of the unblazed wilderness know just how human a good rifle becomes to its owner.

It is a friend every hour of the night and day, faithful to its master's desires, keeping starvation at bay and holding death for his enemies; a guaranty of safety at his bedside by night, a sharp-fanged watch-dog by day, never treacherous and never found wanting by the one who bestows upon it the care of a comrade and friend.