"Sure thing," answered Sam. "Still, we needn't worry; I guess there isn't any danger of anybody trying to track us, even if Ja—"
"Don't say it!" howled Jack. "Might think from the way you fellows talk I was the only one who had a word to say 'bout it."
"Quit scrapping," laughed Bob, good-naturedly. "There are a lot of hunters in this part of the country. Forget it, and help me stamp out this fire."
When they were certain that nothing remained but a heap of charcoal, the seven walked toward the bronchos.
"Oho," sighed Dave, with a glance at the tree-covered heights above, "I can see our jobs cut out for us. Whoa, Whirligig, whoa! Everything put back on the packhorses, Bob? Good! My turn to lead one, and Dick the other, eh? Well, such is life in the wilds. Here, Whirly!"
He untethered the restive broncho, and coaxingly patted a brown-patched neck. Then, with a nimble spring, Dave was astride his back.
"The lake shore route," quoth Bob; "hill's too steep yet to climb."
The seven horsemen rode in single file, the steady hoof-beats alone breaking the soft murmuring roar of the wind in the forest. At every turn the scenery became more wild and impressive. Dense masses of vegetation defied them to attempt a passage. Frowning reddish cliffs, where erosion had worn away the soft facing of whiter rock, towered high above, to deeply shadow the line of shore.
Passing around one of these crags, Bob Somers, at the head of the column, came to a halt.
"Here's a chance to force our way up, fellows," he said.