They followed Wild-Goose Creek all next day, getting always closer to
its headwaters near the divide. On the third day they crossed to the
other side of the ridge and descended into a little mountain park. They
were in a country where prospectors never came, one deserted even by
trappers at this season of the year.
The country was so much a primeval wilderness that a big bull moose
stalked almost upon their camp before discovering the presence of a
strange biped. Big Bill snatched up a rifle and took a shot which sent
the intruder scampering.
From somewhere in the distance came a faint sound.
"What was that?" asked George.
"Sounded like a shot. Mebbe it was an echo," returned Dud.
"Came too late for an echo," Big Bill said.
Again faintly from some far corner of the basin the sound drifted. It
was like the pop of a scarcely heard firecracker.
The men looked at one another and at their prisoner. Their eyes
consulted once more.
"Think we better break camp and drift?" asked Dud.
"No. We're in a little draw here--as good a hiding-place as we'd be
likely to find. Drive the horses into the brush, George. We'll sit
tight."
"Got the criminals guessing," Holt contributed maliciously.
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