“That’s about it,” assented Hamp.
There was no chance to say more. A sled was given to each lad, and they dropped into line behind Bogle, who assumed the lead with a rifle over his shoulder.
In the rear came Sparwick, dragging the third sled and keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners.
All morning the little party tramped steadily to the east. At noon they stopped long enough for a lunch. Then they pushed on, through scenery of the most lonely and rugged description, until three o’clock in the afternoon.
A deep valley now lay before them. It was densely covered with trees and undergrowth. After traversing it for half a mile, Bogle turned toward the base of the hill. He pushed through a strip of heavy timber and huge, scattered bowlders.
A moment later the weary travelers were at their destination.
The Rock House was aptly named. It was a sunken depression in the base of the mountain—a sort of cave with an open front.
In a short time the place presented a cozy and cheerful appearance. The luggage was unpacked, and the red flames danced in the stone fireplace. Sparwick brought in a dozen loads of pine boughs and made a soft bed.
It was long past dark when supper was ready. In spite of their grief the boys were very hungry. They enjoyed the meal. Then Bogle ordered them to bed.
“You needn’t think of escape,” he said. “This place is harder to find or get away from than the cabin in the swamp. Make the best of things, and in good time you’ll be free.”