“This won’t do,” came from Harry. “If we aren’t careful we’ll get in so deep we can’t get out again. We’ll have to turn back.”
“Turn back—with the Indians following us?” said Joe.
“I mean to walk around this hollow, Joe. It’s the only way.”
They turned back to dry ground and then moved to the southward, still further away from the brook. Here was something of an opening, but they avoided this and made for some rocks, gaining a new shelter just as three Indians burst into view.
“Keep to the rocks,” whispered Joe. “Don’t leave a trail if you can help it—and get away as far as possible from this place!”
He went on, over the rocks, and Harry followed. The way led deeper and deeper into the forest and soon the light of day was shut out entirely.
Both were now out of breath and glad enough to climb into a dense tree and rest. As they sat among the upper branches they listened intently for more signs of the Indians, but none reached them. Once Joe fancied he heard a cry in English at a great distance, but he was not certain.
“This is a pickle truly,” observed Harry, after a long spell of silence.
“It is what we get for straying away too far from camp,” returned Joe bitterly. “Father warned me to keep near, and he warned everybody else, too.”
“What do you say we should do next?”