"Watch yourself, Bob! We'll get him!" came encouragingly from Dick Travers' lips.
The loud yells of the boys and clatter of hoofs evidently caused the animal to decide that his enemies were too many to contend against. Still growling and snarling, he whisked about, took several great leaps, and, skirting along by the marsh, disappeared behind a clump of trees.
With a sigh of great relief, Bob Somers faced his excited friends.
"Hurt?—No; not a bit of it, fellows; but the map's gone—and all the fault of that wretched varmint!"
"The map gone!"
These words, repeated by several voices, sounded in accents of the deepest gloom.
"Quick—don't lose an instant!" cried Bob. "You may be able to overtake him, and get it back. Help me get my bronc out of that awful mess, Dick."
Fired with a determined resolve, five boys immediately cracked their quirts, and the bronchos were in motion again, pounding swiftly off in the direction taken by Smull and Griffin.
Bob and Dick managed to capture the former's badly-frightened animal just as it was floundering out of the mire, and presently galloped, side by side, after the now faint and shadowy forms of the other riders.
Occasional sharp, yelping cries echoed dismally between the hills, and within a short time they caught a glimpse of a pack of coyotes, an undulating line of gray sweeping across the narrow valley. A bit further along, the boys came upon Dave, in charge of the packhorses.