“Do you suppose he was looking for us?”
“Lord knows.”
They gathered up their packs and walked west toward the railroad. The lights of the town were squares of yellow among the trees. The track ran toward the edge of town, and they decided they would follow it until they were close to the houses, then cut into the woods to avoid the town. If this was Alston, they would cross the west branch of the railroad soon.
Shortly after they left the track they faced a bog and saw what appeared to be a tremendous fire flickering behind a thin screen of trees. They edged toward the light. Now they heard voices raised above the sound of the blaze. They watched for a moment. Tim said, “Appears to be a tar kiln or a coalpit of some kind.”
“Whatever it is, it’s no place for us.”
They cut deeper into the woods at the left, going close to the river to make a circuit of the kiln. Every step on the dead-dry forest floor sounded like a pistol shot to their uneasy ears.
They lived a nightmare of lost direction and doubt and phantom houses loomed suddenly in their path. They were afraid to light a match, and they couldn’t read the compass in the dark. They stumbled over jagged rock and fallen trees and came to a swiftly running stream that cut across their path. They tried to find a place to cross where they could stay dry, but there was no such place and they waded in, stepping as best they could from stone to stone. Tim’s right foot slipped in the deepest part and his leg went in, wetting his trousers to the knee.
By the time they gained the other side their boots were filled with chilly water. They emptied them and stood on the other side, numbness creeping up their legs.
Tim had moved the matches to a trousers pocket. He drew them out. “Let’s chance a look at the compass.” He held the little instrument close to his chest, and the glow of the match showed the needle dancing back and forth. “I wonder if it works at all.”
“It’s against a button on your blouse.”