He was right, and an instant later, not one snake, but half a dozen came into sight, from under a fallen log. They were three to four feet in length, of a dark brown color, and with eyes that shone like beads. They hissed viciously and then started to crawl in several directions. One passed directly between Barringford's feet, causing the old frontiersman to leap out of reach in great haste.
"Don't stay here!" cried he. "Come!" And away he went on a run, with Dave beside him. They might have shot at the snakes, but did not wish to waste their scant store of ammunition.
Fortunately, the snakes did not follow them, for which they were thankful, and a little later they struck an open space, where walking became easy.
"I suppose there was a regular den of snakes back there," said Dave. "Ugh! I'm glad we didn't strike them last night."
"Perhaps they wasn't poisonous, Dave, but it's best not to run any risks."
It took them the best part of the day to regain the lost trail, and by that time they were so exhausted that further walking was out of the question. They went to fishing in the river and soon had a good mess, which they cooked for supper. Then they sought out a camping spot and retired for the night.
The next day was one of hard tramping, around some falls and rapids of the stream. But after that, they constructed a rude raft and floated along at their ease for the rest of the week. They also shot some small game, which gave them all they wished to eat in that line, and found numerous wild berries. Then they came to a spot where the river divided into two forks, and did not know which fork to take to continue the trip.
"Let us take that on the right," said Dave, and Barringford agreed. A day later they reached some waterfalls, and both the youth and the old hunter gazed around in amazement.
"I know this spot, Sam!"
"So do I, lad."