BOB hardly knew what to do with himself. He ran down the lane at the top of his speed until he was out of breath, and then seated himself on a log in a fence corner to think over his situation. All his bright dreams had vanished like the mists of the morning. His friend Lester had overthrown all his air-castles by the confession he had made, and worse than that, he had placed Bob in a predicament such as no boy had ever been placed in before.

“I will never speak to him again as long as I live,” said Bob, shaking his fist at some imaginary object. “The three hundred and sixty dollars a year that I had hoped to earn will be sure to go into the pockets of that Dave Evans, for there is no one to run against him now that I am off the track. And while he is riding about the country, holding his head high in the air and sporting his fine clothes and hunting and fishing outfit (Bob thought David would spend the money he earned just as he himself would have spent it had he been fortunate enough to secure the position of mail carrier), what will I be doing? I might as well be in the swamp with Godfrey, for I shall never dare to look anybody in the face again. And Lester promised faithfully to stand by me, too.”

Bob had one lesson yet to learn, and that was, if he wanted a friend who would stand by him in any emergency, he must not look for him among boys like Lester Brigham.

“My thirty dollars a month have gone up in smoke,” continued Bob, who was more enraged when he thought of his defeat than he was when he thought of the damaging disclosures Lester had made, “and what hurts me is the knowledge that Dave will get them. I hope somebody will rob him the very first time he rides out with that mail-bag. If I get a good chance I’ll do it myself.”

If Bob had only known it, he was gradually working himself into a very dangerous frame of mind. The feelings to which he had given utterance were like those that had led Clarence Gordon and Dan Evans into so much difficulty. If Bob had been able to look far enough into the future to see the trouble that they were destined to bring him into, he would have banished them with all possible haste, angry and reckless as he was at that moment. He remained seated on his log for two hours, growing alarmed every time he recalled the incidents connected with the burning of the shooting-box and the attempt to rob the negro cabin, and furious whenever he thought of the cowardice of his trusted friend; and when he had thought the matter over without having made up his mind to anything, he arose and walked toward the house.

“I must go home some time, and I might as well go now as an hour later,” thought he. “Of course the family know all about it, and I’d rather be whipped than see my mother, but it can’t be helped. I wish to goodness one of those bears up in Michigan had made an end to that cowardly Yankee before he ever came down here to get me into this mess. I don’t believe he ever saw Michigan. I know he never saw a wild bear until this morning.”

With a dogged resolution to face the consequences of his misdeeds, whatever they might be, Bob settled his hat firmly on his head, clenched his hands, and walked rapidly along the lane, until he reached the house. He slammed the gate behind him, ran up the steps that led to the porch, and after hanging his hat on a nail in the hall, opened the door that gave entrance into the sitting-room. Its only occupant was his father, who sat by the fire reading a newspaper.

“Ah! Bob, there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” said the latter, in a tone of voice which would have led a stranger to believe that he and Bob had just been conversing on some agreeable subject. Mr. Owens never held a grudge against his son, as a good many fathers do. When he had said what he had to say in regard to any of Bob’s misdeeds, that was the end of the matter.

“I once heard you make a remark which leads me to believe that the news I have to tell will please you,” added Mr. Owens.

“I hope it will,” answered Bob. “I ought to hear something pleasing after all the hard things I have listened to to-night.”

“Well, you have sense enough to know that you alone are to blame. I am sorry enough that you allowed yourself to be led away, but it can’t be helped now. Your wish has been gratified. David Evans has lost every cent of the money he received for his quails.”

Bob, who sat on the other side of the fire-place, with his eyes fastened on the floor, started up and became all attention when these words fell upon his ear. He looked surprised for a moment, and then settled back in his chair with a sigh indicative of the greatest satisfaction. “Why, how did he lose it?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.

“His father took it away from him,” was the reply.

“Good!” cried Bob.

“It seems that both he and Dan were concerned in the matter,” continued Mr. Owens. “Godfrey is hiding somewhere in the swamp, you know, and Dan has been acting as a sort of scout between his camp and the village, and keeping him posted in all that was going on.”

“I wish I had known it,” said Bob. “I would have given Dan more than one hint.”

What would Bob have thought had he known that Dan was the one who set Don Gordon’s hounds on him, and defeated the attempt he had made to break into the cabin and liberate David’s quails? He would have been very likely to give him something besides hints.

“Dan found out enough without help from anybody,” returned Mr. Owens. “How he did it I don’t know; but he managed matters so skilfully that Godfrey dropped down on the cabin at the only time he could have secured the money. If he had waited until the next morning the greenbacks would have been safe in the hands of Don Gordon, who, I believe, acts as David’s banker, and Godfrey might have whistled for them.”

“I am glad of it,” exclaimed Bob. “I am glad of it,” he repeated, as he pictured to himself the despair that must have taken possession of the Boy Trapper when he saw his hard earnings thus unexpectedly snatched from his grasp. “It serves him just right; for if it hadn’t been for him I should have had a nice little breech-loader hanging on the pegs in my room in a few days more. I hope he will be served in the same way every time he gets out of his place, and tries to shove himself up among white folks. I hope, too, that they’ll not catch Godfrey.”

“You need not lose any sleep worrying over that,” said Mr. Owens, with a smile. “Godfrey knows every nook and corner of the swamp, and all the constables in the county couldn’t find him. Besides, what could they do with him if they did find him?”

“Couldn’t they do anything with him?” asked Bob.

“Of course not. He is David’s father, and the law gives him the right to take every penny the boy earns up to the time he is twenty-one years old.”

“Good again,” cried Bob. “It is the best news I ever heard, and will give me the best night’s rest I have had for three weeks. Good-night, father.”

Mr. Owens picked up his paper again, and Bob went to his room and tumbled into bed.

“I tell you it makes me feel easier to know that that ragamuffin will never enjoy the money he has cheated me out of,” thought Bob, who, in the satisfaction he felt at David’s loss entirely forgot the injury Lester Brigham had done him by his confession, “but at the same time I am sorry to hear that that worthless Godfrey has come into possession of it. I ought to have it—the whole of it, now that Lester has gone back on me, and if there was any way that I could think of to outwit Godfrey and get hold of it—By gracious!” exclaimed Bob, in great excitement, “that’s a bright idea!”

Bob settled his head into a comfortable position on his pillow and lay for a long time thinking over something his father had said during their recent conversation. Mr. Owens had remarked that Godfrey knew every nook and corner of the swamps, and that all the constables in the county could not find him. Bob told himself that he knew every inch of the swamps, too, and that if anybody could trace Godfrey to his hiding-place, he was the one. But he did not believe that the fugitive was in the swamp. He thought that Godfrey’s camp could not be very far away—in fact, that their plantation must be nearer to it than any other, or else the man would not have come to Mr. Owens’s smoke-house to steal bacon. After Bob had reasoned in this way for a while he must have arrived at some conclusions that delighted him, for he suddenly raised himself upright in bed and struck his open palm with his clenched hand.

“Perhaps all the constables in the county can’t find him,” said he to himself, “but I believe I can. At any rate I’ll start out in search of his camp in the morning just as soon as I have eaten my breakfast, and if I discover it I’ll find some way to get hold of that money or my name is not Owens.”

Bob lay down again and rolled over to think about it; and he thought about it for hours. The longer he turned the matter over in his mind, the more excited he became; and, although he had told his father that he could enjoy the best night’s rest he had had for three weeks, he did not fall asleep until about two hours before he was called to breakfast. The first things he thought of after he opened his eyes were the hundred and sixty dollars Godfrey had in his possession, and the plans he had determined to put into execution in order to get them into his own hands. It never occurred to him then that he was about to act the part of a thief, for he was so wholly engrossed in thinking about the fine hunting and fishing outfit that he intended to purchase with the money, if he got it, that he could not bestow a thought upon anything else. His chances for success seemed so bright that he became excited while he dwelt upon them, but he succeeded in controlling himself so that the members of the family did not notice it; and when he had eaten a hearty breakfast and put a generous lunch into his game-bag, he shouldered his father’s rifle and left the house.

His game-bag was not a very handsome or expensive article. It was made of a piece of thick cloth, cut square and sewed together on three sides, and was slung over his shoulder by a leather strap. This strap, where it crossed his breast, was formed into a rude sheath in which Bob carried his hunting-knife. The bag answered the purpose for which it was intended—that of carrying the squirrels, quails, and other small game that fell to Bob’s rifle—but it did not suit the boy. He wanted something better, and felt angry every time he looked at it.

“I’ll have one like Don Gordon’s before many days (somehow all the boys in the settlement who did not like Don envied him and wanted things just like his), with a net to hold the game and leather pockets to carry my knife, cartridges and matches in,” said Bob to himself, as he put his lunch into the bag. “I’ll have a breech-loader, too, just as good as his own; and when I get it I’ll take pains to meet him somewhere in order to let him see that there are boys in the settlement who are just as well off as he is, and just as able to throw on style. Look out for yourself now, Godfrey Evans! I am on the trail of those greenbacks!”

Bob made his way in the direction in which Godfrey fled on the night he was discovered in the smoke-house, and after crossing an extensive cornfield, plunged into the woods and turned his face toward a certain locality that he believed to be one of the places in which Godfrey would be most likely to make his camp. Bob knew that Godfrey had a hiding-place on Bruin’s Island, in which he had concealed himself while the Union forces were passing through that part of the state, and he knew, too, as everybody else in the settlement did, that he had gone there as soon as his connection with the affair of the buried treasure became known. It was also noised abroad in the settlement that the fugitive had been driven off the island by Don Gordon’s hounds, and everybody wondered where he was now. Bob thought he knew. There were numerous hills and gullies on the main shore in the vicinity of Bruin’s Island, and in one of these gullies he expected to find the man of whom he was in search.

The moment Bob entered the woods he threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm and slackened his pace to a very slow and stealthy walk. His experience had taught him that hunters sometimes run upon the game of which they are in search before they know it; and, although he believed Godfrey’s camp to be five miles and more away, he was as cautious as though he expected to find it in the very next thicket. The sound of rustling branches and dropping nuts, accompanied by an occasional squeal of alarm, told him that the squirrels were at work on all sides of him; but Bob paid no attention to them. He was in pursuit of larger and more profitable game. He made his way slowly through the woods, stopping now and then behind a tree or thicket of bushes to listen and look about him, and at one o’clock found himself standing on the bank of the bayou.

The bank, at this point, was in reality a bluff, and rose to the height of a hundred feet or more. On each side of it was a densely-wooded ravine, one of which extended back into the forest, and the other, after running parallel with the bayou for a short distance, turned abruptly to the left and was finally lost in the swamp. They were both excellent hiding-places, and while Bob stood leaning on his rifle, wondering which one he ought to explore first, he saw a thin, blue cloud rising from the bushes which covered the bottom of the ravine on his right. Most boys would not have noticed it; but Bob was on the lookout for just such a sign, and he knew at once that it was the smoke of a camp-fire.

“There he is,” said he to himself, taking a hurried survey of the ridge in the hope of finding a path that led into the ravine. “It must be Godfrey, for no one else would be likely to make a camp in such a place. Now, if he is at home I must come upon him before he knows it, for if he hears me he’ll run off, and that wouldn’t suit me at all.”

Failing to find the path of which he was in search, Bob selected a place where the bushes grew the thinnest, and throwing himself on his hands and knees, crept quickly but noiselessly down the ridge, pushing his rifle in front of him as he went. Before starting he fixed the direction of the camp-fire in his mind, so that it was not necessary for him to stop and take his bearings. He kept straight ahead, working his way along with such caution that he scarcely caused a leaf to rustle, and finally raising his head above a huge log behind which he had crept for concealment, he saw the camp-fire close before him. Godfrey was at home, too. He was lying on a bed of boughs beside the fire, his head resting on his hand, the stem of his pipe tightly clenched between his teeth and his eyes fixed upon the glowing coals. The boy looked at him in surprise. Godfrey had never been noted for his neat appearance, at least since Bob became acquainted with him, but the young hunter had never seen him look as he did now. His clothes were all in tatters, his hair, which was not concealed by a hat, was disheveled, and his face was very pale and haggard.

“I wouldn’t be in his place for all the money there is in Mississippi,” said Bob to himself, as he drew back behind the log to make up his mind what he ought to do next. “It will not be long now before the cold winter rains will set in, and then what will he do with himself? He’ll freeze to death.”

Bob lay quiet behind the log for a minute or two and then suddenly rising from his place of concealment, showed himself to the astonished Godfrey, who let his pipe fall out of his mouth and started up in great alarm. Bob was so close to him that flight was useless. He was discovered and there was no help for it.

“Why, Godfrey, is that you?” exclaimed the boy, as if the meeting were purely accidental. “Did you see a spike buck run this way about half an hour ago?”

Godfrey slowly and almost painfully arose to his feet, bringing his rifle up with him, and the boy heard the lock click as the hammer was drawn back. He looked dangerous, and Bob began to fear that he had done a very foolhardy thing, in following up so desperate a man as Godfrey was known to be when he was aroused. “Hallo!” he cried. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Ye can’t shet up my eyes with yer spike buck,” answered Godfrey, in savage tones. “Ye’r on my trail.”

“On your trail?” repeated Bob, innocently.

“Yes, an’ I know it. Ye’r a follerin’ me; but it’ll take more’n one man to tote me to the calaboose. Ye hear me speakin’?”

“Why, I don’t understand you.”

“Wal, I reckon ye know thar was a furse in the settlement, an’ that they blamed me fur it, don’t ye?” demanded Godfrey, impatiently.

“O, is that what you mean?” exclaimed Bob. He leaned his gun against the log, and walking up to the fire warmed his hands over the coals. Godfrey looked sharply at him for a moment and then dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground. “No,” continued Bob, “I did not hear of any fuss in the settlement. I knew that you and that city chap, Clarence Gordon, played a good joke on Don, and kept him tied up in your potato cellar all night; but that can’t be what you are staying out here in the woods for? It has all blown over now. Nobody ever speaks of it.”

Godfrey looked suspiciously at Bob, and then his face brightened. Perhaps things were not so bad after all, he told himself. His brow became clouded again a moment afterward, however, when he thought of the highway robbery of which he had been guilty. But he might have made his mind easy on this score, for there was no one in the settlement who knew anything about it, not even the general; for his brother had never mentioned the circumstance in his letters.

“Is that all ye heared about me?” asked Godfrey.

“Well, no,” answered Bob. “I understand that you went home night before last and took the hundred and sixty dollars Dave made by trapping quails.”

“Wal, dog-gone my buttons, wasn’t they mine?” shrieked Godfrey, jumping up and knocking his heels together. “Haint he my son an’ haint I his pap? Haint I older an’ don’t I know more’n he does, an’ haint it the properest thing that I should have the handlin’ of all the money what comes into the family? Whoop! Don’t the law give me all the airnin’s of my scamps of boys till they’re twenty-one years ole?”

“Hold on, now,” exclaimed Bob, who, although he was not a little startled by Godfrey’s exhibition of temper, tried to look quite unconcerned. “Don’t smash things. Everybody knows that it was your money, and that you had a perfect right to take it.”

“That’s jest what makes me so pizen savage,” yelled Godfrey, throwing down his rifle, burying both hands in his hair, and striding back and forth like an insane man. “It’s mine, an’ I had oughter have it; but, dog-gone it, I haint got it now.”

The last word was uttered with a wild shriek that made the words ring again. Bob looked and listened in great wonder, and stepped back a pace or two.

“Jest look a yer,” cried Godfrey, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing it out through the hole which Dan had cut with his knife. “I give half the money to that thar mean Dan o’ mine, but he got mad jest kase I wanted to take keer on it fur him; so when I was asleep he cut out the box an’ tuk hisself off to the swamp!”

Here Godfrey went off into another wild paroxysm of rage, and Bob sat down on the log and looked at him.