He struck on the trail, which had been abandoned at discovering Cato insensible on the ground, and rapidly “loped” off, followed closely by his little army, who were of various opinions regarding Cato’s fright. Some declared with solemn faces and low tones that Dead-Man’s Forest, always considered haunted, was surely so, and by a terrible unknown, and that Cato had been under his influence; while others as stoutly insisted it was the punishment which ungrateful liquor always brings upon his subjects—the delirium tremens. Old Sol, on being interrogated, only shook his head solemnly, and evaded the answer—he had his opinion, but it was for himself alone.
If Walter had not been so grief-stricken and anxious, he would have longed to find the owner of the voice (if there was one) and would have done so if he had spent weeks in the task, for he had had a glimpse of him once, but a very brief one; but he was now so troubled and frantic he desired only to recover his lost treasure.
Away they went on the broad trail, fully satisfied that in reaching its end not only Downing, but the voice would be found; and they wound in and out among the trees in the grim old forest. They were within a mile of the swamp when Eben, always keen as a ferret, suddenly halted, drew his rifle to his shoulder and fired at some distant object.
“Missed, by thunder!” he angrily cried with a good old-fashioned oath. “Bungler!”
“What was it, Eb?” inquired the men, peering cautiously around ready for an attack.
“The durnedest looking chap I ever saw—a hunchback. He was peeking from behind a tree.”
“Which one?”
“That big cottonwood. Whew; how he did scamper.”
“Come on, boys!” shouted Sol, starting off in the direction indicated. “Hyar’s suthin’ wrong. We ken easy find the trail ag’in.”
They followed pell-mell toward the cottonwood, but before they had gone half the distance the same former voice, called out: