Fred Hatfield's fears might have been well-founded had the mules not
been so winded. They had run at least four miles from the railroad
and even with the fear of the snarling panther behind them they could
not continue much farther at this pace.

But over this rougher and narrower road the timber cart jounced more
than ever. In all its life the panther had probably never received
such a shaking-up. The mules had not gone far on what Fred called the
Rattlesnake Hill Road when, with an ear-splitting cry, the huge cat
leaped out from the flying wagon and landed in the bush.

"We're saved!" gasped Ruth. "That dreadful beast is gone."

Fred immediately tried to soothe the mules into a more leisurely
pace; but nothing but fatigue would bring them down. Thoroughly
frightened, they kept starting and running without cause, and there
was no chance in this narrow road to turn them.

The fact that it ascended the side of the hill steeply did more
toward abating the pace of the runaways than aught else. The track
crept along the edge of several abrupt precipices, too--not more than
thirty or forty feet high, but enough to wreck the wagon and kill
mules and passengers had they gone over the brink.

These dangerous places in the winding road were what had so
frightened young Hatfield at first. He knew this locality well. But
to Ruth the place was doubly terrifying, for she was lost--completely
lost.