As if in reply, from behind the surrounding trees, a dozen dark forms suddenly emerged and started toward him. Half beside himself with alarm, Hiram, his mind full of visions of moonshiners, Indians and desperadoes, leaped to his feet and started to run for his life.
But he had not gone a dozen steps before he stumbled and fell. As he did so his head struck a rock and the blow stunned him.
The men who had emerged with such suddenness from behind the trees hastened up.
“We needn’t have feared a trap,” said one; “it was a genuine Scout signal. I’m glad my boys taught them to me or we might have been too late to save this boy.”
The speaker was the same man who had recognized Rob Blake, and whose two sons were members of the Curlew Patrol. He picked Hiram up.
“Lost and half scared to death,” he said tenderly; “and just to think that we crept up on him like a bunch of prowling Indians.”
“Well, we’ve got to look out for traps, you know,” put in the leader, the gray-moustached man; “those two smoke columns that you knew the meaning of might have been a trick to decoy us. I’m glad we approached stealthily, but I’m sorry we scared this poor kid so badly.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right directly,” was the easy reply. “Sam, you and Jim get a kettle boiling and make coffee. We’ll camp here to-night,” said Rob’s friend.
He set Hiram down at the root of a big tree just as the lad opened his eyes and gazed with astonishment on the group of stalwart, kind-eyed men gathered in wonderment about him.
* * * * * * * *