Jake looked back over his shoulder. Above them, to the northward, he caught a view of a figure for an instant, clear against the skyline—the silhouette of a mounted man, galloping along the trail. Again came the bloodthirsty belling of the hounds. Had they found the hut?
Again the fugitives were among the trees. Of a sudden Sherlock Jones collapsed; had they not caught him, he would have fallen headlong on his face. Jake and Burk exchanged glances. With the pursuers so close on their heels, burdened as they were with a helpless boy——
Sherlock was mumbling something, through chattering teeth. “You go ahead—leave be here——”
Jake shook him. “We won’t leave you, old scout! Just a few steps more——”
“No—can’t bake it—— I’ll clibe a tree, so the dogs can’t get be——”
“Do you think you can?” asked Burk eagerly. “Say, if you could get into a tree, the dogs would stop for a while, and we might get free! If only you could do it, hold them at bay for a few minutes——!” It was true that the boy was a hindrance to their flight, and could be nothing but a danger to them; but could he be left behind to hold the yapping hounds, who were sure to pause if they found their quarry treed, he might gain for them a few priceless seconds——
“I’ll do it! I said I’d help you, Bister Burk!” gulped Sherlock bravely. “Just put be into a tree—a big tree——”
“By George, that might do it!” said Burk, admiringly. “Come on, we’ll hoist him up this one.” He indicated a smooth-barked poplar with a low branch hanging just above them. “Give him a lift.”
There was no time for delay. Like a sack of flour, Sherlock’s form was heaved against the trunk of the tree with a mighty swing. He waved his arms desperately, caught hold of the limb, and scrambled aloft amid a shower of leaves and bark, kicking his dripping feet wildly behind him. Like a treed raccoon, he huddled in a crotch of the tree and tried to make himself small.
“Rud!” he shouted to the two below. “I’b all right. I won’t tell theb a thig!”