For a long time he lay there, panting, till the vast ache inside his ribs grew less painful and finally departed. Then at last he rose on wobbly legs and went forward. When he was a prisoner in the outlaws’ garret he had made no definite plans beyond escaping from the house. But now he saw quite clearly that some sort of intelligent planning would be necessary if he wanted to avoid getting lost or recaptured. To reach the river was his first problem. If he could strike the bank he was sure he could find Natchez, somewhere a few miles to the north. So he went on, searching for a more open space where he might get his bearings. For what seemed like an age he plowed through dense timber, where he could see only an occasional gleam of moonlight, much less a recognizable star. But finally the trees opened out in front of him and he found himself in the edge of a small clearing, full of stumps and brush, but giving a clear view overhead. A few clouds still covered part of the sky, but he made out the Dipper, and following the two pointers, located the North Star. It was ahead of him and a little to the right, so that he knew his general direction had been good. What he wanted now was to bear toward the left, shaping a westerly course, and so reach the river bluffs. At the farther side of the clearing he struck into what seemed to be a wood path leading westward. Rough as it was, he found he could walk along it with much less difficulty than through the trackless brush, and as long as it continued fairly straight he had no fear of losing his direction. For more than a mile he followed this trail, and came at length to a narrow little valley where the path led off to the right along the brink of the ravine. As he paused, undecided, a faint sound of water came to him from somewhere below in the undergrowth. He had been desperately thirsty for hours. In a moment he had scrambled down the bank and was bending above a shallow little stream. Down he went on hands and knees and drank his fill of the clear, cold water. And then, just as he was getting to his feet, there came a sound that fairly froze his heart with fear. Still far off, it was, but unmistakable--the deep, bell-like baying of a hound. Until that moment Tad had not thought of dogs. Yet it was natural enough that Murrell should have them. In his trade of slave-stealing, he must often find use for bloodhounds. The muffled note rang out again. Was it nearer this time? On his trail--_his_ trail! They were after him with dogs! For an instant Tad felt the panic terror that makes the hunted rabbit run in circles. His only impulse was to rush off blindly, somewhere--anywhere. Then some measure of sense returned to him and he began thinking, swiftly. Up to that point the scent would be fresh and strong, easily followed. His pursuers would make far better time than he had made, thrashing through the brush. From now on he must baffle them, or he was lost.