ones. 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