“If I press the trigger of this pistol,” challenged Tag, “will you be able to offer the girls much protection then?”

“Perhaps not,” Prescott rejoined.  “But shooting me will be the only way that you can get this gun from me.”

There could be no doubt that the high school boy meant just what he said.  Tag, who was not accustomed to wasting time in crises, turned angrily on his heel.

“Hold on there a moment,” called Dick.  The other boy baited, turning about.  “Do you remember what I told you the other day?” demanded Prescott.

“You’ve told me a lot of things I never took from any other kid,” growled Tag.

“Do you remember what I told you about your father, his love for you, and his desire to meet and claim you?”

“Old Bill Mosher’s love?” laughed Tag harshly.  “I’d stay and laugh a while at that, but I’ve other business for to-day.”

“No; your real father, Mr. Page!” Dick cried after him, as Tag started away.  “Bill Mosher found you in a railroad wreck.  Your real father is a man of wealth.  He is nearly broken down from the many anxieties of trying to find you.  He spent last night at our camp.  This morning he and friends of his started off to find you.  Tag, come back here, and I’ll take you into camp.”

“No, thank you!” leered the larger boy.  “I’ve been taken into camp before, and you’re the lad that turned the trick.  You turned me over to Valden and Simmons, and they turned me over to the warden at the jail.  I’m not going back to that jail—–­alive!”

“You foolish fellow!  Can’t you understand?” bellowed Dick, following Tag as he once more turned away.  “I’m telling you the truth, and your father is only too anxious to employ all his wealth in protecting whatever rights you may have.  Bill Mosher was seen at the jail yesterday, and he admitted that you were not his son, but that he found you as a baby at a railroad wreck!  Tag, use your brains, for once, and come back to camp to meet your father!”

“Good-bye!” laughed the larger boy derisively, increasing his fast walk to a run.

Desperately, Dick Prescott followed.  As Tag sprinted, so did the high school boy.

Looking back, young Mosher tripped over a root, and fell heavily.  The revolver flew from his hand landing several feet away.  Prescott was now so close that Tag sprang to his feet and ran on without making any effort to recover his lost weapon.

Then the larger boy dived into a thicket.  He did not appear again.  Master of every hidden path in these forests, he seemed likely enough to get away without leaving a trace of a trail.

Dick halted, brought to his senses by the realization that he had deserted the three high school girls who had been entrusted to his escort.  He turned about.  At the spot where Tag had tripped he bent over to pick up the abandoned revolver.

One glance into the cylinder was enough.  There wasn’t a cartridge in the weapon.