“I don’t know. But it won’t hurt to humour him,” returned his chum. To tell the truth, Chet Havens felt hope suddenly aflame in his heart; yet why, he could not tell. CHAPTER V—THE BEARS’ DEN The lame Indian youth did not even look behind to see if he was followed. Digby Fordham was finally as much impressed as his chum. He jerked Hero’s reins out of Chet’s hand and led both mustangs into the shelter of the wood, where he tied them. Chet coiled the lariat up slowly; nor had he followed John Peep far when Dig rejoined him. “Lucky I had this rope hung on the saddle-bow, wasn’t it?” Chet observed. “Going to take it with you?” queried his friend. “Yes. It might come in handy again.” “Huh!” returned Dig. “I’d rather have a gun along.” “What under the sun do you want a gun for?” asked Chet. “Well! you never know when you’re going to want a gun—up here in the mountain, anyway.” “Nonsense! You see that fellow isn’t armed,” pointing to the Indian. “That’s his business,” said Dig doubtfully. “You never know when you’re going to run into a mountain lion—” “Pshaw!” exclaimed Chet Havens. “We’re not looking for game.” “And that’s just when we run into something, sure-pop!” Chet did not answer this. They were following hard on John Peep’s heels, who did not once look back to see if they were coming. He was leading them up the path which went to the abandoned mine where the shaft had been caved in by some miscreant. At the level of the plateau on which the shaft was dug, the Indian lad struck off to the right, away from the Crayton shaft and toward the side of the mountain from which the white boys had ridden. There was good reason for John Peep’s having advised the tethering of the horses. This part of the forest was a dense jungle, never having been cleared. The trees were huge fellows, some of them scarred and riven by lightning-bolts. Man’s hand, since the beginning, had marked this forest but slightly. The ground was rocky, ledges and big boulders cropping out between the trees. It was really a mystery how the trees took root and held their footing between the rocks. The Indian kept on up the hill, slanting ever to the right, away from the plateau. Suddenly Chet discovered that they were in a well-defined path; but it was not a man-made track—it was not even an Indian runway. It twisted and turned between the rocks and big trees, first going up, and then down, the hill. Chet turned to smile grimly at his friend. “Maybe you’ll wish you did have your gun, Dig,” he said. “Huh?” “A bear made this path originally, I bet! And many of his relatives have followed in the same track. This path leads right to an old den, or I’m much mistaken.”