Each, taking turns with the powerful field-glass, stared in all directions. But nothing appeared within the circle.
"That doesn't prove anything," sighed Tim. "You may be sure they're not far away."
"Smull and Griffin acted like a pair of pirates," growled Tom.
"Pirates are water-birds, Cliffy," suggested Sam.
"Well, I'll bet Tom Smull felt like a water-bird for a few minutes," retorted the other, with a very faint grin.
"There's goin' to be snow before long," remarked Tim, "an'—"
"It would mean good-bye to gettin' back for six months," supplied Jack. "Snowed up in the mountains; I suppose that's the next thing'll happen, Timmy."
They stopped only a few minutes for lunch. Full of determination to win the race against all odds, the boys forgot fatigue, pushing their hardy little bronchos to the utmost limit.
When night came, after the hardest day in the saddle they had ever experienced, it found them encamped in the foot-hills, with Mount Wanatoma looming majestically above them. Its apparent nearness was deceptive, however, and all realized that many miles of rough, dangerous country had still to be crossed.
A cold wind was sweeping down from the heights, and from somewhere in the darkness came the sullen murmur of a rushing torrent. Sleep seemed banished from the thoughts of all save Dave. After supper, they paced restlessly to and fro before a fire built in a deep hollow, their shadowy forms touched now and again by the ruddy glow. None cared to venture far away, for, as on the night before, they realized that the blackness hid many a snarling foe.