“Reckon we kin,” opined Brown, gazing up at the clear, summer sky. “We’ll travel by starshine. Totherwise, it’d be too risky pokin’ ’round in them orful bogs come dark. Ther’s muck out yonder that’ll suck a man out o’ sight in three jerks of a lamb’s tail.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Dodge, “it’ll be a terrific chore getting the rangers through. The horses ’ll be belly-deep in mud half the time. We’ll be lucky to make five miles a day.”
At late evening, Bill and Tom prepared to leave Dodge’s tent, where there had been a last minute conference. The stalwart ranger gave a strong farewell clasp to the hand of each of the scouts.
“We’ll be back, Colonel, with a report,” said Brown confidently. “You kin count on that.”
He and Tom then bent low and passed through the sleeping camp. For a moment or so, they could see the vague shapes of the tents and picketed horses on the hill crown. Then all was lost in darkness.
“Footing is passable so far,” whispered Tom presently.
It wasn’t long, however, before they found the ground growing steadily more uncertain. They could get along only by stepping upon large hummocks of rank grass, little quaking islands in an ocean of mud, sticky, knee-deep mud. Worse still, they now came to a place where a gap of several feet intervened between them and the next hummock. This gap was filled by a forbidding slough, black and ominous.
“Nothin’ to do but jump fer it,” declared Bill.
By a vigorous exertion, coupled with a skillful bit of balancing, they managed to contrive the leap. Then they groped their way through a patch of swamp alder, where their travel was suddenly enlivened by scores of skin punctures, like sharp needles.
“Skeeters!” mourned Bill.