It was a desperate chance, but they took it.
“One dash for the camp,” whispered Texas. “Git in an’ hide, no matter what!”
They leaped out of the window and made a dash for the ladder. A second or two might make all the difference now. They might get a start, or again they might find a man with a revolver to stop them at the foot. It was a critical situation, and the plebes were quick as lightning, even Indian.
Texas dropped to the ground, and Dewey after him. They could not wait for the others to get down the ladder. Mark slid down like a flash, holding to the side with one hand. Indian slipped halfway and tumbled the rest. Chauncey, Sleepy and the Parson came down one on each side, almost on top of them, and a second or two later the Seven were at the foot staring about them like so many hunted animals.
“Come on!” cried Mark, seeing no one. “For your lives!”
They sprang forward and dashed away toward the camp. They had not gone a dozen yards before there came a shout from the rear of the hotel, a shout that swelled to a roar.
“There they go! Quick! Stop ’em! Halt!”
Halt? Not much! Those plebes were running as never did man run before. Even Indian was breaking records, fear urging him to prodigies of speed. Fortunately there was no one of the pursuers who was armed, but they were in hot pursuit, and their shouts might have the camp awake any moment.
It was a very short distance to the camp, but to the burglars it seemed a league. They expected a pistol shot any moment, and yet they could not run any faster. They bounded across the path, through the bushes and on, until suddenly a high embankment loomed up before them. It was Fort Clinton, and they dashed around the corner and into the camp beyond.
They were not so quick but that the foremost of those in chase saw clearly where they went; and the cry swelled out upon the breeze: