He did not finish, but Johnny caught the meaning—in case the men they were after were too strong for them. He had visions of Drew stumbling through the brush carrying his bullet-riddled body. It was not a pleasing vision. He put it out of his mind.
And indeed there was need of this. There was little or no trail on this side of the channel. Here a moose had crowded his way through the brush; and here, becoming discouraged, he had left the next comer to make the best of things and had taken to the water.
There was need for extreme caution. The snapping of a twig, the sudden rush of a moose disturbed in the night, would betray their presence.
“About half the way,” Drew breathed at last.
A stretch of barren, sloping rocks greeted their eyes.
“Skirt it.”
They crept across in the shadows.
“Must be nearly there. Get ready.” Drew was calm. Though little more than a boy, he was a seasoned trooper.
“There! There’s a gleam of light!” Johnny gripped his arm.
“Just around this next clump of pines we’ll get a clear view. And then—”