o for the beasts. One went in one direction and the others
in another, but at last all appeared to be safe, although covered
with the sticky mud and slime.

"That's an adventure I didn't bargain for," was Tom's comment. "Do
you know what I think? I think that cowboy sent us into this on purpose."

"Maybe he did," came from Dick. "Did it, I suppose, to get square
because we didn't pay him all he thought the steer was worth."

To round up the horses was no easy task, and by the time this was
accomplished it was long past dark. They searched around for a suitable
spot and then went into camp.

"This trip is lasting longer than I expected," remarked Dick when
they were around the camp-fire preparing an evening meal. "I trust
the others don't get worried about us."

"Oh, I guess they know that we can take care of ourselves," answered Tom.

"I wish I had that cowboy here," muttered Sam. "I'd give him a piece
of my mind."

"I think we'd all do that," added Fred.

"I vos gif him a biece of mine mind from der end of mine fist," said
Hans, and this made them all laugh.

The camping spot was not a particularly good one, yet all slept
soundly. They left Wags on guard, but nothing came to disturb them.

It was misty in the morning and so raw that they shivered as they
prepared to start off. How to proceed was a question, and it took
them a good quarter of an hour to decide it.

"It would be folly to go deeper into this bog, or swamp," said Dick.
"I vote we keep to the high ground."

"That's the talk," said Sam. "Maybe, when we get up far enough, we
will have a chance to look around us."

As well as they were able, they had cleaned off the horses and
themselves, and now they took good care to keep from all ground that
looked in the least bit treacherous.

"Here is a new trail," cried Tom after about two miles had been
covered. "And it seems to lead up a hill, too."

"Then that is the trail for us," put in Songbird, and they took to
the new trail without further words.

"Songbird, I don't hear any poetry," observed Dick as they rode along.
"What's the matter?"

"Can't make up poetry in such a dismal place as this," was the answer
in a disgusted voice. "I wish we were out of this woods, and out of
the mist, too. I declare, it's enough to give a fellow malaria."

The sun was trying to break through the mist, which was an encouraging
sign. Here and there a bird set up a piping note, but otherwise all
was as quiet a