Bob once more took the lead and set the pace. The ground they were covering had a slight inclination upward, and the path continued to wriggle, serpent fashion, through the dense growth of timber.
It was the almost impenetrable screen of the woods that suddenly plunged the boys into difficulties. Rounding an abrupt turn, beyond which it was impossible to see because of the dense foliage, Bob and Dick plunged recklessly into full view of an encampment. It was a large encampment, too, and pitched in the midst of a big clearing. The place was not a hundred yards off, and Bob, pulling himself short up, got a glimpse of black soldiers lolling and smoking under rough canvas shelters.
For an instant he halted and stared; then whirled face about.
“Back, Dick!” he exclaimed. “Run, run for your life!”
The words were hardly necessary. The boys had been seen and a wild clamor came from the encampment. A fizzing sputter of firearms awoke echoes in the timber, and scraps of lead could be heard slapping and zipping through the leaves.
“We might be good for three or four,” panted Dick, as he stretched his legs along the path, “but we have to knock under when the whole rebel army gets after us.”
“Save your breath!” cried Bob. “Run!”
“Where? That other pack, with Fingal, is ahead.”
“Never mind. The largest force is behind.”
The dark-skinned rebels were tearing along like madmen. The boys, looking over their shoulders, could see them wherever the path straightened out into a short, straightaway stretch. At such times, too, some one of the pursuing rabble let fly with a bullet. The bullets went wild, for there is no such thing as accurate shooting by a man who is on the run.