Deeper and deeper they went into the timber, until at length they came to a small stream, both sides of which were covered with rocks.
Here, of course, the tracks made by the robbers could not be followed, and the searchers came to a halt.
“Stuck,” said Dalmer, laconically. “Wot’s ter do now?”
“We had better separate,” said Bob. “Supposing one of you go up the brook, one down, and I will cross and see if I can’t hit the trail in the wood beyond.”
“All right, that’s a good plan,” said Wright. “I’ll be the one to go down stream.”
He turned in the direction. Ruel Dalmer started in the opposite direction, and Bob was left alone.
The moon had now risen, and a faint light stole through the timber, broken here and there by heavy shadows. A boy less brave than Bob might have shivered at the uncanny situation, but Bob did not know what fear was. He had seen too much of the seamy side of life for that.
Jumping from one rock to another, he crossed the stream and plunged boldly ahead. He had a fair idea of the direction of the Shanover turnpike, and thought he could do no better than make directly for it.
“For that is what those chaps did, if they were bound this way,” he reasoned.
Less than half an hour later Bob came to a large mass of rocks, covered with trailing vines and moss. He paused for a second, and as he did so a peculiar sound came to his ears.