Even as he spoke one of the lights dashed through the bushes up to them, and Cyril saw, to his amazement, that it was a lighted lantern strapped on to the head of a stout pony. A man with a skin cap on his head rode the pony.
"Hullo!" shouted he, "what's this? What are you fellows doing? Camping out, eh?"
"Of course we are," said Green cautiously. "And who may you be?"
"Oh, we're just a party of men from Ellison's saw-mill——"
"Ellison's saw-mill! That's good hearing!" cried Green. "We're on our way there, but have got lost. How far off are we now?"
"About six miles or so. Where are your horses?"
Green looked embarrassed. Then he said, "We fell in with a rough lot—they shot our horse——"
"Shot your horse? Had you only one?"
Before Green could reply, much to his relief two or three other men came up, who, after asking a few questions, swung themselves from their saddles, and, opening their saddle-bags, began to take out sundry packages.
"We might as well have our breakfast here," said one. "Any objection to our using your fire to boil our kettle, master?"