McIvor, the leader of the crew, was holding out the envelope taken from the stump and saying something to the first prisoner. They could not catch the words at that distance. Podmore shook his head and renewed his pleadings. The only response to these was an oath and a cruel blow on the mouth from the enraged ruffian, who now issued a sharp command.

Two of his men sprang at the prisoner and in a trice had stripped him to the skin from the waist up. They tore his shirt to ribbons. A jerk of McIvor's hand brought a third man on the run, carrying a tin can. He began to smear the contents over the back and chest and arms of the shrieking prisoner. While the onlookers rocked with drunken laughter Red McIvor peeled bill after bill from the roll of stage money in his hand and plastered them to the prisoner's naked body with resounding slaps.

"Tar an' feathers up to date—spruce gum an' greenbacks!" mumbled the detective. "Hear that feller yell!"

Kendrick's eyes were ablaze. He whipped out his revolver, his teeth clenched.

"McCorquodale, we can't sit here and see him killed in front of our eyes. This thing's gone far enough. I'm going out there——" But the detective grabbed him and with an oath dragged him back.

"Y' gone clean nutty?" he protested furiously. "Wanta get croaked, y' poor fish? Fat chanst y' got with them bohunks armed with rifles! It's six to one!"

"They're scaring the poor devil to death, I tell you. See, they're getting ready to drive him into the bush! Man, don't you understand? The flies! He'll be eaten alive!"

McCorquodale carried his profanity pretty close to the surface at all times, but the wellspring of it that gushed from him as once more he dragged Kendrick off his feet sounded the depths of anxiety and formed a lurid preface to angry argument. Had Kendrick forgotten Stiles? They couldn't hope to save both prisoners at once. Get Stiles first and they could organize a search-party for Podmore afterward.

"The whole mob'll be chasin' off in a minute an' that's the chanst we gotta lay for. Don't go 'n' spoil everythin' just as it's comin' our way. For the love o' Pete, 'bo, stuff moss in your ears an' sit tight!"

Kendrick had himself in hand again immediately. In an open fight with that gang two men hadn't a ghost of a show. As it was, their situation was desperate enough. The best that could be done for Podmore was to let things take their course for the moment. Later——

The detective's prediction was being fulfilled rapidly. The last bill had been stuck in place and the drunken gang had staggered to their feet, jeering and laughing at the grotesque appearance of their victim. They formed in two lines with sticks in their hands in preparation for the moment when the prisoner would be released and forced to run the gauntlet of their blows in his flight to the woods.

Podmore's eyes were rolling in the agony of his terror. A crimson slobber drooled from his swollen lips. As he was cut loose from the cords that bound him to the post and the first stick thumped his back he sprang away with a frenzied yell.

There was but one path left him—straight down between those two lines of hideous leering faces. Beyond he would be free and the woods for him held no terrors to equal the panic of the moment. With arms hugged over his head for protection he made his dash to such good purpose that he leaped by the excited rows of man-baiters with only one or two bad bruises. In their eagerness to achieve a good wallop some of his intoxicated tormentors missed him altogether and succeeded only in swinging themselves off their feet as he passed. Those who thus went sprawling tripped up the others and the scramble enabled him to get a good sprinting lead. Fear sped his feet. He seemed not merely to run; he took wing and flew—a screeching, gibbering madman.

And laughing loudly, yelling, brandishing their clubs, the whole crazy howling mob took after him.

Kendrick gnashed his teeth as he watched and waited. His throat was dry, his fingers twitching with repressed rage. When at last he spoke his voice was hoarse.

"Ready, Cork? There's only one in sight. Come on!"

"Leave'm to me!" growled McCorquodale huskily, grabbing up a stout stick. "You look after Stiles."

They dashed into the open at top speed. The man who had remained behind to guard the second prisoner was still standing in the same spot, holding Stiles by the coat-collar and listening to the receding uproar and the wild screams of Podmore as he fled for his life. Both the man and his prisoner were gazing off towards the tote road down which the stragglers of the chase were just disappearing. McCorquodale was within ten feet of them before the fellow turned. As the detective scooted at him he let out a startled yell which was effectively chopped in the middle by the descending blow.

"Mr. Kendrick!" gasped the white-faced Stiles, his eyes bright.

"Quick, Jimmy!"

He cut the cords that pinioned the other's arms and hustled the speechless youth across the clearing.

"Hi, there! Stop!"

Red McIvor at the door of the shanty had just caught sight of them. He jumped back inside for a rifle.

"Beat it!" yelled McCorquodale. "Under cover!"

The bullets clipped twigs from the trees as the three plunged into the woods.

"This way. Quick! Follow me, you fellows," cried Phil. He jumped a log and struck to the left at a sharp angle. "I know a place where we can stand them off—if we can make it."

They floundered on, barking their shins in the darkness that encompassed them beyond the circle of the bonfires. Behind them McIvor was hallooing to his scattered followers at the top of his lungs and cursing impotently between hollers as he poked about at the edge of the clearing.

The bedlam which had broken loose when Podmore was freed had trailed out to a scatter of noise in the distance. Far away the shrieks of the half-demented man of money still rose above the shouting and cat-calls, but they were growing less frequent and fainter. Podmore was making good time apparently. There was a lot of hallooing going on from one to another, while loud voices and laughter marked the return of stragglers who had dropped out of the chase.

With so many stumbling about in the dark Phil reckoned that the unavoidable snapping of dry sticks in their scramble through the undergrowth would pass unnoticed long enough to enable them to get well away. Once or twice they crouched in silence to allow groups of men to pass them; for Kendrick was now taking a course parallel to the tote road. Every little while he paused to listen for the fresh outbreak that would take place back at the camp as soon as Red McIvor had got enough of his men together to start an organized pursuit. He grinned presently as a chorus of hallooing flung wide upon the night to apprize those farthest away that something had gone wrong and to recall them. By this time, however, the three fugitives were almost within reach of their goal and could afford to slacken pace in favor of stealth.

The temporary refuge for which Phil was heading was a rocky elevation which rose not more than a stonesthrow from the logging road. It marked the end of a spur which jutted out from the ridge than ran toward Kinogama Falls. Some by-gone age of upheaval had thrust skyward a huge pillar of granite and the centuries had gathered about its base a rubble of boulders and earth in which the forest growths had taken root and spread up the slopes. On the top of this hill was a basin-like depression which made a natural rampart for defensive purposes and Phil had remarked as much on the day that he and Cristy Lawson had climbed to it. They had stood looking around at the huge broken slabs of granite and speculating upon the oddness of the formation, while their conversation had taken on an academic flavor as they discussed the nebular and glacial theories. They had discovered at the bottom of a great cleft in the rock, a spring of sparkling water, so cold that it was impossible to drink it without frequent pauses. They had named the place "The Saucer," had eaten their lunch there. He remembered how beautiful she had looked as she talked in carefree animation and he had taken her hand to pilot her among the rocks and—— That was just three days ago!

"Easy now, fellows," cautioned Phil in a whisper. "It's just a short climb, but watch your step. Give me your hand, Cork, and you take hold of Jimmy's. For the life of you don't dislodge any stones. They'd go down with a crash that could be heard a mile on a night like this."

They reached the top without this misfortune, however, and dropped behind the rocks with no little satisfaction.

"Now Jimmy, what's the meaning of all this?" demanded Phil. "Keep your voice down to a whisper. Podmore—what about him? And how in the mischief did these toughs get hold of you?"

It was only by the greatest effort that Stiles pulled himself together. The excitement of seeing friends and of the escape had keyed him to the required effort, but with the tension relaxed he was on the point of collapse. None too strong at any time, the terrible experiences of the past few days had weakened him greatly; he had had little to eat and the strain of the last twenty-four hours had exhausted him. He covered his face with his hands and shook as with an ague.

"Well, never mind, just now, Jimmy," said Phil quickly as he noted this condition with some anxiety. "There's a lot of talking to be done, but it can wait. You lie down and get some rest, old man,——"

"Can it! Can it!" whispered McCorquodale fiercely. He held up his hand and listened.

After the uproar of the past twenty minutes the sudden quiet in the vicinity of the camp was ominous. There was no longer any sound of Podmore or of the chase. But now and then a dry stick snapped and there was a swishing of bushes. The sounds seemed to come from three or four points at once.

"They're searching the woods for us," whispered Phil. "They probably figure we'd make for the river. After everything's quiet, we'll slip away from here and try for the canoe, but not——"

Bang!—Bang!-Bang!

The rifle shots shattered the quiet within a hundred yards of them, down the tote road towards the river. The three fugitives leaped to their feet and strained their ears to interpret the sudden renewal of pandemonium that had broken out all around them. Men were shouting to each other and plunging excitedly towards the sound of the guns. There was a noise of pursuit rapidly approaching along the logging road. Then came a bull-like bellow of rage and a woman's scream.

Kendrick's face went white in sudden comprehension.

"She's followed us!" he groaned. "Stay here, Stiles. Come on, Cork.
It's Miss Lawson!"

Trailing profanity like an express locomotive trailing smoke, McCorquodale followed down the hill in long stumbling jumps. Loose stones showered after them and large rocks dislodged and crash-smashed through the bushes. Without an instant's pause Phil went leaping over fallen trees and tearing through the undergrowth like one possessed, swearing at the occasional obstruction over which he tripped in the dark.

He broke through into the tote road just as the girl's fleeing figure loomed dimly in the twilight.

"Here, Cristy!" he shouted. "This way. The Saucer! Make for the
Saucer! Are you all right?"

"Yes," she panted. "Oh, Philip,—Svenson—call Svenson!" Neither of them gave thought to the familiar names by which they addressed each other under the stress of the moment.

"Here, Cork. Help her. Hustle back, the both of you."

There was no time to lose. Members of the gang were plunging through the woods towards the spot from several directions. Kendrick sped down the tote road, revolver in hand. Svenson was not hard to locate, for he was bellowing like a bull of Bashan in the middle of the trail, shaking his fist in the air and hurling defiance at a cringing group who were just picking themselves up from the ground where they had been flung by the enraged Swede.

"Come on, Svenson! This is Kendrick. Quick, man," called Phil. "We've got her safe. But there's a million more of them coming through the woods."

They ran for it none too soon. Rifle flashes broke in the dark like fireflies elongated. Bullets were whining past them and thudding into the tree-trunks and plowing up the ground all around them as they dove into the thicket; but it was blind guess work shooting in the dark. They got through unscathed.

At the foot of the hill they overtook McCorquodale and Cristy just as the sharp bark of the detective's automatic sent three pursuers hastily to cover. The big Swede swept the girl over his shoulder as if she had been a sack of meal and started rapidly up the ascent while Kendrick dropped behind a rock and joined McCorquodale in the fusilade with his own weapon.

The firing was bringing the whole gang about their ears and as soon as he had given Svenson time to reach the top Phil ordered the detective to beat a retreat. They tumbled in among their friends, all but winded.

Svenson sat down and wiped away the blood that was trickling down his face from a scalp wound.

"Yum—pin' _Yim_iny!" he puffed with emphasis. "Vell, by golly!"

"Y've said somethin', Goliath," approved McCorquodale with a grin.