"All right," Don agreed, and Tim slipped away among the trees.
After that Don followed the sound of soft, guarded whistles. The combination of a cane and a bad foot made it slow work. Once he tried to hurry, and the ankle stabbed him cruelly. He was all right so long as he used the foot carefully, and he sighed and resigned himself to a snail's pace. Every now and then he would come upon Tim, standing like a statue—waiting and listening. Once Tim took off the bandages, wet them, and put them back.
When the job was finished, Tim gave him a hand and helped him up. They stood looking at each other. Each boy read something in the other boy's eye. An embarrassed grin twisted Tim's mouth.
"You're all right," Don said suddenly.
"Well—" Tim looked away. "I'm going to be."
The flight with the treasure was resumed. Tim disappeared ahead. Almost immediately he was back.
"We've got to swing out," he said. "There's a lot of tangled underbrush near the brook. We'll go more to the west."
"That will carry us over toward our old trail," said Don.
Tim nodded. They both knew what that meant. Either Eagles or Foxes had been following the blaze. The dangers of a meeting were increased.
They had completely lost track of distance. They did not know how far they were from the edge of Lonesome Woods. They did not even know where they were.