A faint line of smoke in the distance alone met the gaze of Dyke
Darrel.

It was evident that some one had fired upon him with murderous intent.
This was the belief of the detective.

"Somebody has dogged my steps; there can be no doubt about that,"
answered Dyke Darrel. "I was not wrong in my supposition that Black
Hollow is the rendezvous of a gang of outlaws. I wish I had one good
man with me to help hunt these scoundrels down."

The darkness deepened, but no one appeared, and fearing that he would
not be able to follow the path if he tarried, Dyke Darrel, with his
revolver in hand, ready for use, moved from his shelter, and attempted
to make his way out of the labyrinth in which he found himself.

The detective soon lost the path, however, and found himself in a
desperate tangle, with the blackness of a dismal night settling down
upon the place.

"I'm in a pickle, now, for a fact," muttered Dyke Darrel. "I was a
little indiscreet in coming here so late in the day. It does seem as
though I must come out somewhere if I continue to strive."

Nevertheless, an hour's walk in the dense undergrowth failed to bring
the detective to the bank of Black Hollow, or to any opening. "A
veritable trap for the unwary," growled Dyke, as he halted with his
back against a tree, with the perspiration oozing from every pore.
Even his wiry limbs and muscles were not proof against the tangled
nature of the wood into which he had so coolly entered.

Dyke Darrel was not in a pleasant mood as he stood meditating on the
situation.

"It looks now as though I was destined to remain in the wood all
night."

It was not a pleasing prospect.

The detective was on the point of making one more effort to break
through the tangle that encompassed him, when something caught his eye
that sent a thrill to his heart.

It was the glimmer of a light.

It did not seem to be far away, and Dyke Darrel resumed his fight with
the thickets with renewed courage. In a little time he entered a glade
in the woods, to find himself standing in near proximity to a low log
cabin, through a narrow window of which a light glimmered.

"Some one lives here, it seems."

Dyke Darrel moved forward cautiously, for he still believed that the
wood was the haunt of outlaws, and this very house might be the den
where the plunder of many raids was secreted.

Soon the detective stood on a little rise of ground, in such a
position that he could peer into the window