He was obliged to hurry for fear they would pass before he could get to where he could see them, but he was used to passing noiselessly through the forest, having been taught the art by an old Indian up in Northern Maine, and not a bush moved nor did a sound betray his movements. The voices of the approaching party were rapidly becoming more plainly audible and by the time he had gotten as near the trail as he dared and had thrown himself at full length behind a convenient bush from where he had a fair view of the trail, they were close at hand. He tried to catch some of the words but was unable to get the drift of the conversation, as they were speaking Spanish and, although he had some knowledge of the language, they spoke too fast for him to follow it.
In a moment the leader came in sight, a big man, riding a dark brown horse. He wore an old black sweater and heavy corduroy trousers, while his head was covered with a broad-brimmed felt hat. Somewhat to his disappointment he noticed that the man's hair was coal black.
"That's not Red Hains," he thought. "Unless he's dyed his hair."
The leader was closely followed by a second man fully as large and dressed much the same except that he wore a faded brown coat in place of the sweater. The rest of the party, six in number, were of much the same type but not one of them had red hair.
"That's about as tough-looking a bunch as I'd care to see," Bob thought. "But I guess it's not Hains' gang. At any rate, he's not with them."
The last man had come in sight when the leader stopped.
"There's been a party along here," Bob heard him say to the man behind him and he spoke English.
"What mak' you tink so?" his companion asked, and from his accent Bob knew that he was a Canuck.
"Don't yer think I've got eyes?" the black-haired man snapped.
"I tink you got ver' smart eye, you see dat."