“Sure! Forty miles at least.”
“Where are the others?”
“Pat, Jack and the Chink Scout? Pat came up just before I started, riding on a burro, an’ in the custody of a small party of rangers, who thought he had been setting fires. The rangers went into camp over there, all tired out, an’ Jack an’ Pat settled down with them. I run away.”
“They don’t know where you are?” asked Frank.
“Nix know!” replied the boy.
“But how did you ever get through the burning forest?” asked Frank, hardly believing the boy’s story of his long walk.
“This ‘burn’ is only a mile wide,” Jimmie said. “I walked on the south edge of it. Say, there are plenty of lives lost! Bears, an’ cats, an’ all that. I guess this will be an agreeable place to live in about a week—not!”
The boy was indeed “all in,” as he expressed it. He had walked since early morning through a tangled forest black with smoke, through an atmosphere burned and smoked out of its life-giving qualities. And all this exertion in order that he might be near his chum, Nestor.
Fortune had favored the lad, and he had at last blundered on the camp where Ned had taken refuge, otherwise he might have died in the forest from hunger and exhaustion, or been devoured by some of the savage beasts which had followed him all day.
“Where’s Ned?” Jimmie asked, as they stood before the little row of tents.