more than most generals, and he was filled with the lore of the woods.
He would trust him. He let his head sink back on the folded blanket,
and his heavy eyes closed again.

When Dick roused from his stupor the sergeant was still by his side, and,
as his eyes grew used to the darkness, he noticed that Whitley was really
kneeling rather than sitting, crouched to meet danger, his finger on the
trigger of a rifle. Dick's brain cleared and he sat up.

"What is it, Sergeant?" he whispered.

"I see you're all right now, Mr. Mason," the sergeant whispered back,
"but be sure you don't stir."

"Is it the Johnnies?"

"Lean over a little and look down into that dip."

Dick did so, and saw four men hunting among the trees, and the one who
seemed to be their leader was the little weazened fellow, with the great,
flap-brimmed hat.

"They're looking for your trail," whispered the sergeant, "but they won't
find it. It's too dark, even for a Sioux Indian, and I've seen them do
some wonderful things in trailing."

"I seem to have met you in time, Sergeant."

"So you did, sir, but more of that later. Perhaps you'd better lie down
again, as you're weak yet. I'll tell you all they do."