“Can’t we rescue them in the dark?” asked Joe.
“Jest what I calkerlated we might try to do. But we must be keerful, or else we’ll be killed, an’ nobuddy saved nuther.”
It was late that evening when they started back for the river, Pep Frost leading the way, slowly and cautiously, with Harry’s gun still in hand, ready to be used on an instant’s notice.
The boys had been taught the value of silence, and the whole party proceeded in Indian file, speaking only when it was necessary, and then in nothing above a whisper.
It soon became evident that the clear night of the day before was not to be duplicated. There was a strong breeze blowing, and heavy clouds soon rolled up from the westward.
“A storm is coming,” whispered Joe to his father.
“I won’t mind that,” answered the parent. “It may make the work we have cut out for ourselves easier.”
Soon came the patter of rain, at first scatteringly, and then in a steady downpour. Under the trees of the forest it remained dry for a time, but at last the downpour reached them and they were soon wet to the skin.
“This isn’t pleasant, is it?” whispered Harry to Joe. “But if only it helps us in our plan I shan’t care.”
Before the river was gained they had to cross an open space. As they advanced Pep Frost called a sudden halt and dropped in the long grass, and the others followed suit.