It was only a short distance ahead,
hidden in a deep hollow that completely concealed its existence
from the keenest eyes that might pass along the river. Stealing
cautiously to the crest of the little knoll between him and the
light, Philip found himself within fifty feet of a camp.
A big canvas tent was the first thing to come within his vision.
The fire was built against this face of a rock in front of this,
and over the fire hovered a man dragging out beds of coals with a
forked stick. Almost at the same moment a second man appeared from
the tent, bearing two huge skillets in one hand and a big pot in
the other. At a glance Philip knew that they were preparing to
cook a meal, and that it was for many instead of two. Wildly he
searched the firelit spaces and the shadows for a sign of Jeanne.
He saw nothing. She was not in the camp. The five or six men who
had fled up the river with her were not there. His fingers dug
deep in the earth under him at the discovery, and once more
appalling fears overwhelmed him. Perhaps she had already met her
fate a little deeper in the forest.
He crept over the edge of the knoll and worked himself down
through the low bush on the opposite side, which would bring him
within a dozen feet of the man over the fire.
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