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One hot noontide he and Eric lay on the wharf in the baking sunshine. It was not Pilot Taraldsen’s wharf near the house, but the old wharf beyond the woods. So the gentleman got into Jeremias’s boat and Johnny and Asta turned it toward the wharf. Asta was always inclined to put her oars too deep in the water, and when she tried to take them out, she had to get up off her seat almost every time. Johnny threw condemnatory glances at her. She was likely to ruin everything, doing no better than that, after he had assured the gentleman that they could row. They rowed to the buoy and he climbed out upon it..

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A moment later the place was in an uproar. Fired by bad whiskey and the knowledge that numbers were with them, the bunch of Mexicans had jumped for the solitary figure. “John!” screamed Mother, starting up. “Oh, Johnny! my boy, my boy! Is it really you?” A moment or so later the Indian got up and motioned to Bob that it would be safe to follow. They did not take the path but threaded their way amongst the underbrush, the sand deadening their footsteps. So cleverly did the Indian pick his way that hardly a sound was made by their coming in contact with the bushes. Bob had difficulty in keeping up with his guide, yet he did his best and when they reached the crest of the hill he was but a few steps behind. Absorbed in the melancholy reflections which the late intelligence excited, he gave the reins to his horse, and journeyed on unmindful of his way. The evening was far advanced when he discovered that he had taken a wrong direction, and that he was bewildered in a wild and solitary scene. He had wandered too far from the road to hope to regain it, and he had beside no recollection of the objects left behind him. A choice of errors, only, lay before him. The view on his right hand exhibited high and savage mountains, covered with heath and black fir; and the wild desolation of their aspect, together with the dangerous appearance of the path that wound up their sides, and which was the only apparent track they afforded, determined Hippolitus not to attempt their ascent. On his left lay a forest, to which the path he was then in led; its appearance was gloomy, but he preferred it to the mountains; and, since he was uncertain of its extent, there was a possibility that he might pass it, and reach a village before the night was set in. At the worst, the forest would afford him a shelter from the winds; and, however he might be bewildered in its labyrinths, he could ascend a tree, and rest in security till the return of light should afford him an opportunity of extricating himself. Among the mountains there was no possibility of meeting with other shelter than what the habitation of man afforded, and such a shelter there was little probability of finding. Innumerable dangers also threatened him here, from which he would be secure on level ground..