At about eleven o'clock that night Van's predictions as to the difficulties in the way of progress were fully verified.
They were apparently in the midst of an untrodden forest. The brush was jungle-like, the ground one continuous sweep of hill and dale.
It took one breathless, arduous hour to cover a mile, and their clothes and hands were scratched and torn with thorns and brambles.
"It's a little better beyond the creek," said Van. "A man could hide in a wilderness like this a good many years in a safe way, eh, Fairbanks?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Ralph, and mentally wondered if his companion was alluding to the mysterious Farwell Gibson.
They were a wearied and travel-worn pair as they lay down to rest at the first token of day-break. It was at the edge of a level expansive sweep surmounted by a dense growth of trees.
"We're nearly there," proclaimed Van.
"How near?" interrogated Ralph.
"You see that hill?"
"Yes."
"That's our last climb."
"I'm thankful," said Ralph.
They tramped up the slope after a bit. Once over its edge Ralph, looking ahead, made out a low rambling log house. It was about half a
