As Bob endeavored to rise from the soft, yielding surface which had so fortunately saved him from injury, he caught a glimpse of a dark form struggling through mud and vegetation toward him.
He turned and threshed about, fighting hard to free his legs from the entangling rushes.
"No yer don't!" jeered Tom Smull.
A violent shove sent Bob on his back, and, as his eyes gazed into the lumberjack's triumphant face, he also saw the barrel of a revolver again poked toward him.
"Mebbe that won't keep yer quiet fur a spell!" grinned Tom. "'Tain't allus healthy ter smell powder smoke, young un."
He tore Bob's khaki jacket roughly open, and in another instant his big hand was feeling for the inside pocket.
The precious map was there.
Bob Somers groaned inwardly. He heard a gruff exclamation of joy. The document, held in Tom Smull's hand, was shining in the soft, greenish moonlight.
When the lumberjack's eyes rested upon the crude lines, his exultation was so great that he seemed to entirely forget his victim.
"Ha, ha! The identical thing! It 'ud sarve ye jist right, pard, if I handed yer a clip or two fur all the trouble ye give me; but thar ain't nuthin' mean 'bout me."