At long last, however, just as Tom Gordon was half dozing in the warm spring sun, there came a prodigious tug on his line. After a spirited battle of some five minutes, the excited lad succeeded in pulling ashore a fine, large fish. “What a whopper of a trout!” cried Ben, thwacking the gleaming creature on the head with a stick, as it leaped and floundered in the grass. Perhaps a half-hour later, Ben hooked a second trout, of about the same dimensions. This left Bright Star as the only one who hadn’t caught a fish; and although the trio continued their efforts until twilight, the young brave was not able to spear one of the speckled beauties. “Rock-bug heap good bait,” he said glumly. “Spear no catch um.” “Never you mind, Bright Star,” said Tom consolingly, “I’ll make you a present of mine. We can’t possibly use two fish of that size.” By the time that the big fish were cleaned, wrapped in cool, green, wide-bladed grass and packed away in their pouches, the twilight had deepened rapidly. A dark cloud-bank had come up in the west to mar the end of the bright blue day; and night would now fall with surprising swiftness. “High time to leg it for the fort,” said Ben, viewing the suddenly darkening sky with some apprehension. “We’ll never make it in daylight,” replied Tom, “that’s plain to see.” “Well, the path is pretty fair, and we shouldn’t have too much trouble, even though it is a mite rough in spots.” In another hour, pitchy blackness enveloped them, and travel became increasingly slow. A hasty, careless step on the rough trail might mean a sprained, or even fractured, ankle. Luckily, it was a windless, quiet evening. The restless airs over lake and prairie were still for once, and the boughs of the scattered groves of trees, through which they passed, did not move. After a time, however, they came to the realization that they had lost the path; but almost at once they blundered onto another trail, which Bright Star assured them ran parallel to the first. Suddenly, Tom Gordon, who was in the van as they trod the dark path, came to an abrupt halt, and despite all his resolute nature and self control, shuddered violently. “Great Scott,” he cried hoarsely, “that gave me a start! I’m all over goose-pimples as big as buckshot!” “What in thunder’s the matter, Tom?” yelled Ben, hastening forward with Bright Star. “Look up in the trees!” replied his excited brother. “See those long, dark objects! What in blazes are they?” “Search me. What are they, Bright Star?” “Indian burial place,” the Pottawattomee informed them. “Oh, that’s it,” said Tom. “This is an ancient Injun burying ground. These are mummies swinging from the boughs.” “Wow,” groaned Ben, “what a ghostly place! Let’s get out of here in a big hurry!”