Explore "Flower of the North" by James Oliver Curwood on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Philip stood undecided, his ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Ten minutes had not elapsed since he had dropped the handkerchief. Pierre could not have gone far among the rocks. It was possible that he was concealed somewhere near him now. Softly he called his name.
"Pierre -- ho, Pierre Couchee!"