At one place they were compelled to walk the trunk of a tree that had fallen against another tree. At an angle they walked upward along that often-trod tree trunk, coming to another fallen tree, lodged like the first against the one that remained standing. Down the second tree they made their way. Thus they passed over a thicket through which no path had been made, coming beyond it to what seemed almost like a tunnel, where the darkness was most intense. Creeping through this tunnel, they arrived in the Den, which had been formed originally by a number of trees that fell together, or were twisted together at their tops by the hurricane, in the form of an Indian wigwam. Inside, at the bottom the branches had been cleared away, boughs were spread on the ground, and in the center was a stone fireplace, about which the Wolves could sit in council. Dry wood had been gathered and piled at hand, and some of this they soon arranged on the stones. Dry leaves served in the place of shavings. They were sheltered from the keen night air, but a fire would feel grateful enough, and one hastened to strike a match with numb fingers. The leaves flamed up brightly, the wood caught fire with a pleasant crackling sound, and smoke began to roll upward. Then, of a sudden, one of the trio uttered a gasping exclamation of astonishment and startled terror, grasping the arm of another, and pointing toward one side of the Den. There, bolt upright and silent, sat a human figure, seeming to glare at them with glassy eyes. So still was that figure that Crauthers, who had seen it first, thought it lifeless. It seemed like a person who had sought shelter there and had died, sitting straight up, with eyes wide open and staring. Was it a tramp? No. As the fire rose still brighter they recognized the unbidden one. It was Miguel Bunol. “The Spaniard!” exclaimed Stark. “Spying on us!” burst from the lips of Crauthers, as he saw Bunol’s eyes move and realized the fellow was very much alive. “Sure as fate!” agreed Hogan. “He is Arlington’s right-hand man, and he must be here as a spy.” Bunol laughed softly, coldly. “Don’t be fool all of you!” he said. “Bunol not a spy. Not much at all!” “Confound you!” growled Crauthers, who seemed ready to leap on the Spanish lad. “What are you doing here, anyhow?” “I belong to Wolves. I have right to be here.” “You were not invited. You were not told we meant to meet here. Then——” “Bunol is no fool. He find out some things you do not tell him. But why you do not tell him? He is a Wolf, and he have right to know.” “Oh, go to Arlington, your master!” exclaimed Fred Stark. “Chester Arlington no master of Miguel Bunol!” returned the young Spaniard, with heat. “Some time he find Bunol be his master. You wait, you see.” The young rascals looked at one another in doubt. Up to this time Bunol had seemed Arlington’s devoted servant, and it did not seem possible he had turned against Chester so soon and so unexpectedly.