Robinson groaned. “I can. This third track has come since we went by.”
“No doubt of that, Tom. Well?”
“Well, don't you see?”
“No. What?”
“You and I are being hunted.”
George looked blank a moment. “Can't we be followed without being hunted?”
“No; others might, but not me. We are being hunted,” said Robinson, sternly. “George, I am sick of this, let us end it. Let us show these fellows they are hunting lions and not sheep. Is your revolver loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Then come on!” And he set off to run, following the old tracks. George ran by his side, his eyes flashing with excitement. They came to the brook. Robinson showed. George that their pursuer had taken some steps down the stream. “No matter,” said he, “don't lose time, George, go right up the bank to our path. He will have puzzled it out, you may take your oath.”
Sure enough they found another set of footsteps added to their own. Robinson paused before entering the wood. He put fresh caps on his revolver. “Now, George,” said he, in a low voice, “we couldn't sleep in this wood without having our throats cut, but before night I'll be out of danger or in my grave, for life is not worth having in the midst of enemies. Hush! hus-s-sh! You must not speak to me but in a whisper.”