“The mist is going,” observed Miss Leslie.
“That’s no lie. Now for our coyotes. Where’s my club?”
“They’ve all left,” said Winthrope, peering down. “I can see the ground clearly, and there is not a sign of the beasts.”
“There are the bones–what’s left of them,” added Blake. “It’s a small deer, I suppose. Well, here goes.”
He threw down his club, and dropped the loose end of the creeper after it. As the line straightened, he twisted the upper part around his leg, and was about to slide to the ground, when he remembered Miss Leslie.
“Think you can make it alone?” he asked.
The girl held up her hands, sore and swollen from the lacerations of the thorns. Blake looked at them, frowned, and turned to Winthrope.
“Um! you got it, too, and in the face,” he grunted. “How’s your ankle?”
Winthrope wriggled his foot about, and felt the injured ankle.
“I fancy it is much better,” he answered. “There seems to be no swelling, and there is no pain now.”