They could not help cheering.  “At last!” cried they.  But this triumph gave way to doubts.

“I am afraid we are not clear yet,” said Robinson.  “See, there is wood again on the other side.  Why, it is that sticky clay again.  Why, George, it is the clearing we crossed before breakfast.”

“You are talking nonsense, Tom,” cried George, angrily.

“No, I am not,” said the other, sadly.  “Come across.  We shall soon know by our footsteps in the clay.”

Sure enough, half way across they found a track of footsteps.  George was staggered.  “It is the place, I really think,” said he.  “But, Tom, when you talk of the footsteps, look here?  You and I never made all these tracks.  This is the track of a party.”

Robinson examined the ground.

“Tracks of three men; two barefoot, one in nailed boots.”

“Well, is that us?”

“Look at the clearing, George, you have got eyes.  It is the same.”

“So ’tis, but I can’t make out the three tracks.”

Robinson groaned.  “I can.  This third track has come since we went by.”

“No doubt of that, Tom.  Well?”

“Well, don’t you see?”

“No.  What?”

“You and I are being hunted.”

George looked blank a moment.  “Can’t we be followed without being hunted?”

“No; others might, but not me.  We are being hunted,” said Robinson, sternly.  “George, I am sick of this, let us end it.  Let us show these fellows they are hunting lions and not sheep.  Is your revolver loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Then come on!” And he set off to run, following the old tracks.  George ran by his side, his eyes flashing with excitement.  They came to the brook.  Robinson showed.  George that their pursuer had taken some steps down the stream.  “No matter,” said he, “don’t lose time, George, go right up the bank to our path.  He will have puzzled it out, you may take your oath.”

Sure enough they found another set of footsteps added to their own.  Robinson. paused before entering the wood.  He put fresh caps on his revolver.  “Now, George,” said he, in a low voice, “we couldn’t sleep in this wood without having our throats cut, but before night I’ll be out of danger or in my grave, for life is not worth having in the midst of enemies.  Hush! hus-s-sh!  You must not speak to me but in a whisper.”

“No!” whispered George.

“Nor rustle against the boughs.”

“No, I won’t,” whispered George.  “But make me sensible, Tom.  Tell me what all this caution is to lead to.  What are you doing?”

“I AM HUNTING THE HUNTER!” hissed.  Robinson, with concentrated fury.  And he glided rapidly down the trodden path, his revolver cocked, his ears pricked, his eye on fire, and his teeth clinched.