“What shall we do in the morning?”
“Go back, an’ see if they have taken our clothes.”
“And if they have?”
“Keep on without them.”
The thought was not pleasing, and yet they could devise no other plan. If the hours had been long and dreary at the camp-fire, they were now tedious. Yet the young scouts made the best of a bad matter, and at the coming of day crept back to the clearing, only to find it deserted. There, in the slumbering coals, were the charred remains of their boots, their garments, and their guns.
When Late’s eye fell on the stockless barrels of the weapons, he exclaimed in anger:
“Old Daggett was the only one here last night! See, Joe, he fished out our rifles, and cleaned and re-loaded them before attacking us! After driving us away he burned everything, and cleared out.”
To confirm this supposition they went back to the river, and looked over to the opposite side where they had last seen their enemy. His traps were gone. The great forest had swallowed him and them.
During a moment only did the discomfited lads stand there inactive. Then, turning their faces for the third time westward, hungry, footsore, unarmed, scantily clad, yet undaunted, they set out through the forest toward their destination.