The country was open here, all rocks, gullies and pits. He was surprised to observe how little distance he had really put between himself and the Tolliver camp as the road wound out along the crest of a hill.
He jumped out to lighten the load and coax up the horse. Then he stood stock-still, straining his eyes across the valley.
"I declare!" said Bart in a tone of profound concern, "I got away just in time, but if that is Lem Wacker, he has appeared on the scene just ten minutes too soon to suit me."
Over at the break in the woods a man had appeared from the direction of Millville. He was waving a hand, and then placing it to his mouth as though hailing someone, probably the Tollivers at the camp.
Then he turned straight around. If Bart could read anything at that distance, he could certainly trace that the man was looking fixedly at the red wagon, and the white horse, and himself.
If it was Lem Wacker—and Bart believed that it was—just one thing was in order: to get that trunk to some town, to some station, to some friendly farmhouse, in hiding anywhere, before the pursuit, sure to follow, was started.
Bart ran on, with a last glance at the lone distant figure. He could not afford to wait to see if the Tollivers joined it. Every minute was precious.
"Where is the horse?" exclaimed Bart.
Dobbin had "got up." While Bart was surveying the landscape, the old animal had plodded on, and was now out of sight.
Bart ran along the road. It turned between two walls of slate. Then came the open again. Here the road descended somewhat. The horse stood at a halt. He had run easily a few rods, one wheel had struck a deep rut, and the wagon had broken down. It lay tilted over on one side, one wheel completely caved in.