"Another minute," said Ritter.
Don stood with his watch in his hand. All at once he put it away.
"Three-thirty, Tim." They walked toward the woods.
The patrol followed them to the edge and stopped. There were cries of good luck. They waved their hands and stepped among the trees. Twice they looked back; the first time the scouts were visible, the second time they were gone. The cries of good luck grew fainter and ceased. They were alone.
"There's one of two things to do," said Don, in a voice that trembled with excitement. "We do not know whether our trail crosses the others. We must either go cautiously, or go fast in the hope that they don't cross. If we go fast we may get to the treasure first."
"All right," said Tim; "fast. Let's find that blaze. If you get it, give a low whistle."
They separated and worked among the trees. A long time later, it seemed, Tim found the blaze. It pointed north. He whistled softly, cautiously. A whistle answered him. Don's footsteps sounded frightfully loud in the stillness.
They started north as fast as they could go. Three hundred feet on they found the second blaze. They lost the third and had to retrace their steps before finding it. The fourth was easy, but on the way after that they encountered a patch of dense undergrowth and a section of fallen trees. Here they had to separate and search once more. This time it was Don who found the mark. Their watches said ten minutes of five.
"Let's go on until almost dark," Tim whispered. There was a sound off on their right. He clutched Don's arm, and they stood like statues and listened, scarcely daring to breathe. By and by they relaxed.
"Must have been a squirrel or something," said Tim. They advanced cautiously.