The young hunters formed a picturesque group as they moved forward in
Indian file, each holding a burning torch above his head and swinging it
so as to keep the blaze going, while his gun was trailed in the other
hand.

The hound Bowser was at the head, Herbert Watrous next, Sam Harper
followed, and Nick Ribsam, who still limped slightly, brought up the
rear.

The hound showed an intelligence which would have been surprising but
for his action respecting the rattlesnake. He kept on a slow walk, so as
not to leave his friends, and now and then looked at them, as if to make
sure they were not trying to shrink from an important duty.

"Keep your torches going," called out Herbert, in a husky whisper, as he
swung his own so vigorously that a large piece dropped off, and, falling
on his foot, caused him to leap up with an exclamation of affright.

The fact was, they had gone no more than a hundred feet from the camp
fire when Herbert began to feel that he had not shown enough care in
picking out his torch, for the blaze was feeble, and, in spite of
continued nursing, showed a tendency to collapse altogether.

"Keep close to me, boys," he said, waiting for Sam to come still nearer,
"for I don't like the way this torch is behaving; I believe it is going
out altogether, and I think I'll get a better--"

"_Look out! there he is now!_" exclaimed Sam, in no little excitement.

As he uttered the warning words, Bowser turned squarely about and ran