The stream narrowed just ahead of them and roared between two walls of rock. On the summit of one of these rocks, standing where they must pass directly under him, was the sharply silhouetted figure of a man.
In his hands he grasped a rifle, seemingly ready for immediate action.
CHAPTER XII.
SAM HARTLEY TURNS UP.
If the figure proved to be one of the outposts of Simon Lake’s camp, the situation was a serious one. In a few moments the big tree would reach the narrow passage in the rocks. When it did, two courses were open to the boys. One was to stick to it and throw themselves and their fate upon providence, or else make a leap for the rocks which were seamed and scarred. But in the event of the motionless figure on the rock proving to be an enemy, their position would be as bad as before. Unarmed as they were, they would certainly have to give in without a struggle.
But just as Tom had about decided that their best plan would be to cling to the tree and trust to luck to get safely through the narrow “gate,” something familiar struck him about the figure. It was that of a sun-burned man of middle age, clean-shaven, and with a conveying sense of alertness in his erect pose. He wore khaki trousers, much the worse for wear, stout hunting boots, laced up almost to his knees, a rough blue shirt, and a big sombrero.
In a flash it came across Tom where they had seen that figure before.
Another instant made the conviction a certainty.
The man was Sam Hartley. If any question had remained of it, all doubt was once and for all removed, as Tom decided to risk a mistake and hailed the man.
“Sam! Oh, Sam!”
The man on the rock started. His rifle, which had come up to his arm pit as the boy hailed, fell back. He stared before him intently as the tree came bumping at the rock. Before he could recover himself, from amid its roots two active young forms had leaped and hurled themselves straight at the stalwart figure of the former arch enemy of the counterfeiters of Saw Mill Valley.