this point, and it might still be visible from the bridge—women and children would have flocked there to the bridge—it would be crowded with them now—they would be watching, eagerly, intently, the place where first he and then Kingman had disappeared from sight. Hebron was having enough excitement to enable it to lay by a store for the coming winter that would supply an inexhaustible fund of gossip—in two days, a fire and a man hunt!
Again the whimsical smile touched his lips, and crept now to the clear, steady eyes. The rigid tenseness of his features relaxed and gave place to a quiet, composed, yet alert expression. He was comparatively safe now. For miles around the country was wooded and hilly—it would take a small army to scour it effectually. The search of the twenty or thirty men, that would be as large a force as could be mustered, must be haphazard at best—unless they caught sight of him. Even now, probably, they had little hope of getting him—that way. They would search undoubtedly until dark—and then go back to wait and let the telegraph do the rest. Penniless, in prison garb, the odds were very greatly against the man who made a dash for freedom. Hunger would drive him to beg for food, his clothes would instantly betray him—and the scent would be picked up again. Where the telegraph reached, there was his description—and there, too, were men eager to pounce upon him.
On Varge ran, tirelessly, swiftly, dodging the lower branches, circling the trunks, keeping his path as nearly parallel as possible with the creek. Against the telegraph and his description—he had three slices of bread and a change of clothing, and the night should mean
