“Now listen,” said Westy. “I’ll tell you afterward. Are you awake enough to have some sense?”

“You addressing me?” said Ed. “Don’t you want some—some kind of fish? I caught about a dozen, didn’t I, Warde?”

“Never mind the fish,” said Westy; “do what I tell you and be careful. Walk slantingways toward the brook—upstream—and walk into the brook that way. Step in as if you were walking upstream. All right, that’s all right. Now come down toward me—keep in the water, whatever you do.”

It was a bewildered but obedient pair that waded downstream toward Westy. They had approached the brook against the current and entered it at an angle suggestive of continuing in that direction. Then, dutifully, they had turned and approached Westy.

“Is it all right to bring my safety-pin?” asked Ed.

“Follow me,” said Westy.

“I demand an explanation,” said Ed. “I fished and caught some fish with my safety-pin, then we waited for you before starting a fire——”

“Yes, thank goodness for that,” said Westy.

“We fell asleep, waiting,” said Warde; “we were good and tired.”

“We tried to keep awake telling Ford stories,” said Ed. “Did you ever hear that one about—what’s the matter anyway, are we pinched?”

“Listen,” said Westy, “and stop your fooling. I’ll tell you now, though every minute counts, I can tell you that. There are two robbers camped under that big tree, they’re asleep-”

“I don’t blame them,” said Ed. “I was asleep myself.”

“Listen,” said Westy, impatiently. “They came under the tree—listen—they came under the tree after I was up in it, and I heard their talk. Maybe you think I didn’t have some narrow escape! They had robbed the train we were on—listen! I can’t tell you the whole business now, but anyway I’ve got Mr. Wilde’s wallet and his permit and everything. I had a jacket or something or other—I guess it was—it belonged to one of them—listen—I had—I pulled it from near one of them—Bloodhound Pete—that’s his name—I don’t know where it is now—don’t ask me—back up there I guess—I was so excited—but I’ve got the wallet—you needn’t believe it if you don’t want to. One of those—one of those men—Blood—Bill—Pete—I mean Bloodhound—Bloodhound Pete—can track anything—I heard him say so.

“Now you fellows follow me and don’t either one of you set a foot on dry land. We’re going down, not up. When we get past the place where I left my footprints on the shore, we’ll be all right, that’s what I think. If they think we followed the stream they’ll follow it up. See? Now come on and hurry.”

Thus the trio that had arrived in the cozy, little cleft, which had seemed to be made for a camping spot, left it in fear and haste, having eaten not one morsel there. In single file they hurried along through the protecting water, Warde and Ed thoroughly aroused by the peril which beset them.

They were not hungry, despite their rather long fast. Nor were they inclined to talk until they had passed the rock near which Westy had entered the water. Even Ed’s cheery mood seemed clouded by the seriousness of their situation. Not even Westy’s exploit of recovering the wallet, nor the thrilling details of his adventure, were matter for talk. They moved along, a silent little procession, clinging, trusting to this one hope of safety, the water. So they trod on, silent, apprehensive.

The brook was not only their concealment, but their guide, and they followed its winding course through the darkness with but the one dominating thought, to place themselves beyond the peril of capture. After a little while they reached the point of the brook’s intersection with the road and paused to consider whether now it might be safe for them to forsake the stream’s uncertain pathway and resume their former line of travel.

They decided to stick to the brook for wherever it led, even through the somber and bewildering intricacies of the forest, it at least would not betray them into the hands of murderers. At last, after three hours of wading, their uneventful progress had cheered them enough for Ed to remark:

“We don’t know where we’re going, but we’re on our way.”

“I guess everything’s all right,” said Warde.

“Don’t be too sure,” said Westy.

“Well, anyway, I’m feeling encouraged enough to be hungry,” said Ed, “I just happened to think of it. I’ve got my little string of fish with me—if I ever have a chance to cook them.”

“How many miles do you suppose we’ve walked in this brook?” Warde asked.

“I don’t know how far you’ve walked in it,” said Ed, “but I’ve walked in it ninety-two and eleven-tenth miles. I think it runs into the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Nix,” said Westy.

“No? Then it runs into the kitchen sink.”

“It runs into a lake and we’re coming to it,” said Westy. “We’ve been walking over three hours. Shall we take a chance and camp there?”

“Either that or we walk right into the lake, don’t we?” asked Ed. “If I’m going to do that, I’d like to know it beforehand if it’s all the same to you.”

“What do you say, Warde?” Westy asked.

“I’m too tired to say anything,” said Warde. “If those friends of yours were to come and shoot me, I couldn’t be any more dead than I am now.”

“Correct the first time,” said Ed.

Soon the brook began to broaden out and presently the fugitives for the first time found themselves in water too deep for wading. They were almost at the edge of a sheet of water, black as ink, where it lay surrounded by precipitous hills. A more desolate spot one could hardly imagine. It was easy to believe that they were the first human beings to lay eyes on it.

“Well,” said Westy doubtfully, “I guess it’s all right; anyway, I guess we can’t go any farther, I’m all in.”

“If we don’t get out of this water, we’ll be all in,” said Ed. “I’m up to my knees already. So far I’m not so stuck on Yellowstone Park. Maybe it’ll seem better when I see it.”

“I’d like to know where we are,” said Warde. “I bet we’ve walked ten miles anyway.”

“Well,” said Westy, “let’s camp on shore and have some eats. They may be asleep yet and anyway, they couldn’t find us here.”

It was amusing how distance and utter weariness seemed to diminish the terrible power of Bloodhound Pete. He and his imprisoned accomplice seemed very far away, and effectually baffled, should they undertake pursuit. And as Westy and his two companions settled down to make a second camp and prepare their belated meal, the peril they had feared grew less and less and, in proportion as it ceased to dominate their minds, Westy’s exploit loomed large. And his two friends, sitting about their little camp-fire, reflected upside down in the still lake, examined the wallet of Mr. Madison C. Wilde, the Philistine, as if it were some relic from Aladdin’s Cave.