"Come, Paul, we must get farther into it. But be sure you don't shake any
boughs."

They waded on, only their heads above the current, and these always hidden
by the interlacing trunks and branches. A great shout, fierce with
triumph, rose behind them.

"They've found where our trail entered the water, and they think they've
got us," whispered Henry. "Now, be still, Paul; we'll hide here."

They pushed themselves into a mass of debris, where logs and boughs, swept
by the current, formed a little arch over the stream. There they stood up
to their chins in water, with their heads covered by the arch. Through
the slits between the trunks and boughs they could see their pursuers.

It was a numerous band--thirty or forty men--and they divided now into
several parties. Some ran along the banks of the stream and others sprang
from log to log over the raft, searching everywhere, with keen, black eyes
trained to note every movement of the wilderness.

Paul felt Henry's hand again on his shoulder, but neither boy spoke. Both
felt as if they were in a little cage, with the fiercest of all wild
animals around it and reaching long paws through the bars at them. Each
sank a little deeper into the water, barely leaving room to breathe, and
watched their enemies still searching, searching everywhere. They heard
the patter of moccasins on the logs, and now and then they saw brown,
muscular legs passing by. Two warriors stopped within ten feet of them and
exchanged comment. Henry, who understood their language, knew that they
were puzzled and angry. But Paul, without knowing a word that they said,
understood, too. His imagination supplied the place of knowledge. They