Thus the two made their escape, running, stumbling through the woods, heading blindly for the spot where they had left their car.
Back of them fresh sounds of firing rang out. How could the frightened, dazed fugitives know that it was Dick Prescott, pursuing, and dropping lighted strings of fire crackers as he ran?
"It's a running fight, and coming right our way!" gasped Bert.
"Let's drop down and crawl to safety!" almost screamed Bayliss.
"No, you don't!" retorted Dodge angrily. "Our only safety lies in getting into that car and throwing the engine wide open. I don't care if we wreck the car if only we can cover a couple of miles of ground first. Run! Hustle!"
Had he suffered from a little keener fear, Bayliss would have collapsed utterly. As it was, fear lent him extra speed. He fairly tore over the ground, darting through bushes, plunging on in headlong haste. Bert kept with him.
"We'll soon be all right," cried Dodge encouragingly. "Now, jump right across the road. Our car is in there, and headed the right way."
Just as they reached the car and Bert's pale face showed right in front of the headlights a third figure dashed up.
Harry Hazelton, his head swathed in a red-stained bandage, and what appeared to be blood dripping from his left arm, sprang at them, the butt of his rifle showing, but its barrel wrapped in his jacket.