They dared not take the journey in the day time, as they did not wish to be seen by anyone and Bart coming along, they had caught at the idea of sending him on with the wagon and its load.

If Bart got through in safety, they could assume that the hunt for the missing trunk was not very active, or had been started in some other direction.

Bart had comprehended that they could take a short cut to the old mill.  He had actually laughed to himself at the ease with which he had obtained possession of the trunk, until they had mentioned that ominous name:  Lem Wacker.

“They are going to wait for Wacker!” murmured Bart, as he urged on the horse.  “That means that they expect him soon, for they calculate on being at the old mill as soon as I can make it by road.  When he does come, and they tell him about me, he’s sure to guess the truth.  Then it’s three to one—­get up!”

Bart did not allow the horse to lag, but his best pace was a poor shambling trot.  All the time Bart thought deeply and practically.

“I have decided,” he spoke definitely after a quarter of an hour.  “I shall turn to my left the first road I come to.  The B. & M. does not touch short of eight miles from here, but somewhere to the southeast is Clyde Station.  Once there, I’ll risk the rest.”

The road was not an easy one.  It was not very smooth, and grew more stony and rutty as he proceeded, and there was a sharp climb for the horse as they reached a hilly landscape.

Bart halted finally.  A road branched to the left.  It did not look very inviting, nor did it seem to be much in use, but as it led away from the main highway, it broke the trail, and without hesitation he turned the horse’s head in the direction of Clyde Station.

The country was open here, all rocks, gullies and pits.  He was surprised to observe how little distance he had really put between himself and the Tolliver camp as the road wound out along the crest of a hill.

He jumped out to lighten the load and coax up the horse.  Then he stood stock-still, straining his eyes across the valley.

“I declare!” said Bart in a tone of profound concern, “I got away just in time, but if that is Lem Wacker, he has appeared on the scene just ten minutes too soon to suit me.”

Over at the break in the woods a man had appeared from the direction of Millville.  He was waving a hand, and then placing it to his mouth as though hailing someone, probably the Tollivers at the camp.

Then he turned straight around.  If Bart could read anything at that distance, he could certainly trace that the man was looking fixedly at the red wagon, and the white horse, and himself.

If it was Lem Wacker—­and Bart believed that it was—­just one thing was in order:  to get that trunk to some town, to some station, to some friendly farmhouse, in hiding anywhere, before the pursuit, sure to follow, was started.