“Better not count your chickens before they’re hatched,” was my comment, in a tone of warning, yet withal said good-naturedly. Jack Utley, who had been discussing Big Bill’s plans, seized upon the opportunity to take another thrust at me. Said he: “You’re always conjuring up bugaboos. How the devil is it possible for the cops to trail us here in these woods?” “Squawking fowls and smoking fires, Jack Utley,” I retorted, being unable to refrain from poking back at him. He shrugged his broad shoulders, smothered an oath, and went back to the air-castle building with Bill. After they had tired of that pastime, they and the others spread themselves out on the ground and prepared to sleep. Before Wilson dropped off he and I had agreed to leave the party at nightfall and strike out on our own hook. I told him that he might rest easy; that I would stay on guard, as I feared that we would not get out of our troubles so easily as some of us thought. The day wore on slowly enough, as I watched the declining sun or kept my ears trained for any suspicious sounds and my eyes alert for anything that might indicate the approach of the enemy. I longed for twilight, when Wilson and I would leave the gang. CHAPTER V A ROCK CLEFT FOR ME Jack Utley’s persistent disregard of all caution worried me much. As I thought of his chicken-stealing episode and of the fire he insisted upon having in the old hut, it occurred to me that we might even at the moment be under the surveillance of some of our enemies. Seeing the smoke in the distance, they might have suspected that we were the cause of it, and, circling to our rear, come over the hill and rush down on us. I determined to keep a close watch on all sides. I was gazing up the hill, a little to the right of our camp, somewhere about four o’clock, when I detected the sound of fast-approaching feet. Instantly my heart was set beating at a furious rate. Scenting danger, I hurriedly roused the lads, telling them what I had heard, and warning them to get ready for flight. Even as I finished a horseman came in view, but from his position I wasn’t certain that he’d seen us. We all crouched low, and were beginning to feel that all was well, when he wheeled about and planted his horse on the hillside only a few rods below us and a little to the left. Immediately he yelled:-- “Come on with the guns, boys. Here they are, like woodchucks in their holes.” This shout was responded to by half a dozen farmers on foot, most of them armed with either a shotgun or a pistol. Down they came upon us, firing and yelling at the same time. Their deliberation told me better than words that they had a perfect knowledge of what the game was they were after. And what was worse, they showed unmistakably that they would get us, even if they had to fight to the end. My fears, therefore, that we would be traced had not been groundless, after all. Jack Utley’s foolhardiness was reaping its penalty, and we all must suffer.