"Just this," said Joe. "What's the use of a fort—a natural fort I'm meaning, though the same thing applies of course to one built by human hands—what's the use of such a place if you can't live in it?"
"Eh?" Hank pushed back his coon-skin cap and scratched his head. This argument was getting somewhat beyond him. He was a cute and cunning little fellow, stuffed full of worldly experience and of forest lore, but subtle argument was beyond him. "See here, Joe," he cried, somewhat testily; "plain words are wanted jest now. What's the meaning of this here fort that you've mentioned? Are you propounding a sorter puzzle?"
That set Joe grinning for the moment; but almost at once he became serious. "I'm in dead earnest, Hank," he said. "But this is what I'm driving at. We've no grub to speak of."
"Precious little."
"And no pots nor pans."
"I'm a-getting through with the argiment," declared the hunter.
"And it's likely to be mighty cold when we're cooped up in some hollow and unable to move about as we are now doing. In fact, blankets are wanted."
"All that aer sense," said Hank, jamming his hat back into place and staring closely at our hero. "Wall?"
"Well, my idea is this. Since we can't climb away to the left, as the ground rises so steeply, and as we can make the pace hot if we happen to be going downhill, why not strike in that direction at once, sweep to the right, and make back for our camp? That'll give us food and pots and pans and blankets. We'll be better able then to look about us for some sort of place that will give us cover. Tell you straight, Hank, I'm getting more worried at the thought that the supper'll be small to-night than I am at the knowledge that those rascals are after us."
Hank grinned widely; his queer little lips, usually pursed close together, parted in a capacious smile which he only indulged in on occasion. A deep-throated grunt came from him, and almost at once his rifle leapt across his shoulder.