“Listen,” said Westy, impatiently. “They came under the tree—listen—they came under the tree after I was up in it, and I heard their talk. Maybe you think I didn’t have some narrow escape! They had robbed the train we were on—listen! I can’t tell you the whole business now, but anyway I’ve got Mr. Wilde’s wallet and his permit and everything. I had a jacket or something or other—I guess it was—it belonged to one of them—listen—I had—I pulled it from near one of them—Bloodhound Pete—that’s his name—I don’t know where it is now—don’t ask me—back up there I guess—I was so excited—but I’ve got the wallet—you needn’t believe it if you don’t want to. One of those—one of those men—Blood—Bill—Pete—I mean Bloodhound—Bloodhound Pete—can track anything—I heard him say so.
“Now you fellows follow me and don’t either one of you set a foot on dry land. We’re going down, not up. When we get past the place where I left my footprints on the shore, we’ll be all right, that’s what I think. If they think we followed the stream they’ll follow it up. See? Now come on and hurry.”
Thus the trio that had arrived in the cozy, little cleft, which had seemed to be made for a camping spot, left it in fear and haste, having eaten not one morsel there. In single file they hurried along through the protecting water, Warde and Ed thoroughly aroused by the peril which beset them.
They were not hungry, despite their rather long fast. Nor were they inclined to talk until they had passed the rock near which Westy had entered the water. Even Ed’s cheery mood seemed clouded by the seriousness of their situation. Not even Westy’s exploit of recovering the wallet, nor the thrilling details of his adventure, were matter for talk. They moved along, a silent little procession, clinging, trusting to this one hope of safety, the water. So they trod on, silent, apprehensive.
The brook was not only their concealment, but their guide, and they followed its winding course through the darkness with but the one dominating thought, to place themselves beyond the peril of capture. After a little while they reached the point of the brook’s intersection with the road and paused to consider whether now it might be safe for them to forsake the stream’s uncertain pathway and resume their former line of travel.
They decided to stick to the brook for wherever it led, even through the somber and bewildering intricacies of the forest, it at least would not betray them into the hands of murderers. At last, after three hours of wading, their uneventful progress had cheered them enough for Ed to remark:
“We don’t know where we’re going, but we’re on our way.”
“I guess everything’s all right,” said Warde.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Westy.
“Well, anyway, I’m feeling encouraged enough to be hungry,” said Ed, “I just happened to think of it. I’ve got my little string of fish with me—if I ever have a chance to cook them.”