At the end of two hours he passed from the confines of the swamp into a fragrant pine forest. There was a steep hill some distance in front of him. He might have gone to right or left, but he was not sure that he had kept unswervingly to the north since he fled from the cabin.
Jerry vaguely feared that he had lost his bearings It occurred to him that from high ground he might put himself right, or catch a flickering gleam of Mowry’s campfire. So he toiled up the hill, never noting that his snowshoes left a plain imprint with every step. He gained a ridge and pushed along it for some distance.
But the undergrowth and timber were heavy, and he could not see far beyond them. He suddenly discovered that he was exhausted and worn out. He thought of climbing a tree to obtain an unobstructed view, but the effort seemed too great. He sat down on a snow-covered bowlder to rest. He was in a glow of heat and perspiration, and did not feel the cold. The silvery moonlight streamed upon an open glade in front of him.
The time sped by more quickly than Jerry knew. The keen, biting air roused him from a train of thought. He concluded to push on. He rose to his feet and stood debating which way to turn.
Before he could decide, a crashing noise in the bushes behind him sent a cold chill through his blood. He ran forward half-a-dozen yards and then turned his head. He was horrified to see Kyle Sparwick emerge from the bushes. The ruffian had a rifle in his hands. He drew it to his shoulder and took aim at Jerry.
“Stop right thar,” he cried. “The game is up, lad. I’ve got you.”
But Jerry did not stop. He melted away before Sparwick’s indignant eyes. In other words, he dodged behind the trunk of a convenient tree. Thence he gained the cover of thick bushes, and made a spurt over the ridge.
No shot followed him. Indeed, Sparwick had not intended to shoot. His object was to capture the lad. He uttered a yell of anger and started in pursuit. His quick, loping gait soon brought him in sight of Jerry.
Then the chase became doubly exciting. Threats of shooting were freely uttered. But Jerry did not let these distress him. He was satisfied, by this time, that Sparwick had some good reason for not rousing the night echoes with a rifle-shot.
The lad was soon at his wits’ end. He was more angry than scared. It was not personal injury that he feared. Recapture meant the destruction of his hopes, and he wanted badly to save Brick’s father from paying fifteen thousand dollars to the rascally schemers. But he seemed doomed to failure. His enemy was rapidly and surely overhauling him. In desperation he picked up a short, thick billet of wood. He faced around and threw it.