“See here, Eb,” he said, “d’ye want a job?”
“What is it?”
“Ter foller Walt. I’m afeard he’s got inter some scrape. Yer can go back ter the place whar Walt left us, and pick up his trail. Don’t leave it ontil ye find him. Ef yer want ter find us ag’in, all yer kin do is ter pick up our trail and overtake us. Yer understand?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Now thar’s no one lookin’—slip inter that hazel-patch yender.”
He sauntered slowly away until he reached the hazel-thicket, when he “loped” away toward the place where Walter had left them. Sol returned to the band, and bidding them follow, started off in search of the robber trail. For once the veteran was wrong.
Eben, walking rapidly, soon came to the spot where he was to take Walter’s trail. It was by a large cottonwood tree which towered above its adjacent companions. Here on every side, except that of the lake, stretched away the old gloomy swamp, ghastly and grim, even in the noontime. As the ground was springy, he had no difficulty in finding the trail, and picking it out from the others. It struck off along the “coast” of the lake, and the young man had in all probability made his way to the log-landing, where the unknown was last seen.
He slung his gun in the hollow of his arm, and bending to the trail, went on apace. It was quite distinct, and he felt sure he could follow it on a run.
He had not gone more than fifty yards when he heard a rustle in a thicket just ahead. With the instinct of a backwoodsman he went behind a tree like a squirrel, and cocked his gun.
The rustle was not such as would be made by a bird or small animal, but was a rustle and a dull thud. This, Eben, being quick-witted, readily construed into a footfall on a prostrate log.