There was still some restraint between them. The scars of last night's fight could not heal in a moment. But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice. For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will—picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out.
Every step now increased their chances of encountering the other patrols.
They passed the fourth blaze since leaving camp, and then the fifth. The
trees became thicker, the foliage denser. The sun was almost shut out.
Even the sounds of the birds were hushed.
Don halted. "We must be getting near the end of the trail. We've come about a mile."
Tim's voice trembled. "Let's make a rush for it."
Don shook his head. "Too dangerous. We'll go ahead, stop and listen, and go ahead again."
"Gee!" said Tim. "Like stalking an Indian in Colonial days."
Now listening breathlessly, now darting forward, now creeping, they slowly forged ahead. Two more blazes were passed. They found the next. It was marked:
-O-
"The end of the trail," said Don in a whisper.
"Maybe we're here first," said Tim.