Harry Vincent, a dazed look on his face, was sitting in the road, rubbing the back of his head.
The man, who was assisting Duncan, appeared to be a farmer. His face was white from his recent experience.
"Sorry I couldn't come quicker, friend," he said. "You gentlemen helped me. I was pretty near done. I was just comin' to help you when the critter ran away. I was agoin' to hit him with this."
He exhibited a large stone in his right hand.
"Let's get him!" exclaimed Bruce.
He leaped to his feet and rushed to the car. He came back with two wrenches and a jack handle. He passed a wrench to the farmer. Harry, now well recovered, accepted the other. Flourishing the jack handle, Bruce started through the underbrush, with the others closely following.
The creature had plowed a track through the bushes. It was easy for them to follow the course, which led to a path. Running along, away from the road, the three men continued their pursuit.
In a few hundred yards they came to a clearing. A small house stood there — a one-story building, not much better than a cabin. A man was watching from the rude porch. He held a shotgun over one arm, and he gazed narrowly at the approaching group.
Bruce Duncan stopped in front of him. The man was dressed in outing clothes, but he did not appear to be a woodsman. Instead, he looked like some one from the city. His face was rather hardened, and he did not appear friendly.
"Well?" questioned the man, as though demanding an explanation.