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decided.
    â€œHow? We can’t get that far ahead.”
    â€œWe’ll split up. You take off through the woods just around this curve, Hermie. Eddie and I might be able to outride them. Hide your bike and make your way to the cave. We’ll get there when we can. But whatever you do, don’t let anyone see you.”
    â€œI’ll try,” Hermie promised.
    They rounded the curve. Hermie spun out and fell into the gravel on the shoulder of the road. That wasn’t in the plan, but Marc hoped Hermie’s spill was as good as hiding. He pumped to catch up with Eddie.
    Sure enough, Mooney yelled, “What’s the matter, Hermie-child? Can’t you keep up?” Mooney laughed, but he and Otis kept following Eddie and Marc. Hermie could make good his escape.
    Marc pulled ahead and whispered the plan to Eddie. They took off as if it was the race of the year. The mountain road was curvy, winding around and around. They hustled up the next climb. At full speed, they flew down the other side of the hill. Rounding a curve, Marc glanced back.
    â€œWe’re hidden for a few seconds,” Marc called to Eddie. “Let’s jump.”
    Marc’s hands slipped on the black rubber handlebar grips. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back.
    â€œNow!” he yelled. He zipped onto a grassy verge, leaping off his bike. The coil of rope swung, slapping his waist, and he nearly fell. He pulled his bike into a hidden pocket of trees and looked back. Eddie wasn’t with him. He’d altered the plan. He’d kept going as bait for Mooney and Otis. Eddie was the best rider. His bike was new. Maybe his plan would work. But this split them up three ways.
    Voices told Marc that Mooney knew he was their leader. He and Otis had stopped, at least long enough to decide what to do, who to follow.
    Taking advantage of their indecision, Marc pushed his bike out of the hiding place. He was grateful for the wet ground that softened the noise of his escape. But it would also leave easy tracks to follow. Lifting his bike, he took off into the brush. He swished downhill, making a path where none existed. He ignored the briars that tore at his jeans and snatched at the rope and the bike—blackberries in the fall, a nuisance now.
    He got a small break. A tiny stream with a bed of rocks cut north and downhill. He ran his bike through the water, soaking his shoes and pants to the knee. But it was easier than trying to get through the brush. The stream would also hide tracks and any mashing down of grass or undergrowth. A good Indian could still follow him easily, but he hoped Mooney was lazy enough to give up.
    The woods took Marc in like an old friend. It was cool and quiet. Before long he left the stream and slid his bike behind a huge rock that was surrounded by young hickory trees. Even if Mooney found Marc now, he wouldn’t find the cave. Marc would laugh, and say, “I give.” For a minute he collapsed beside the rock, taking deep breaths of the air, scented by crushed mint. His clothes were so wet he felt as if he were in a sweat lodge. Mosquitoes whined around his head. He swatted them silently.
    He crouched, his back against the rock, until the woods got noisy again, telling him no one had followed. A hermit thrush warbled its robin-like melody. A mockingbird landed on top of the rock, cocked its head, and looked down at Marc. Then it took off, startled by a human visitor. Marc smiled and knew he had escaped successfully. Now if he could only find his way to the cave from here, he was in business.
    He waited another fifteen minutes for good measure. A skink sensed him, froze on the rocks and wet leaves, then scurried away at lizard speed.
    When he stood, shaking the needle pricks from his foot where it had gone to sleep, he studied his hiding place carefully. If he was going to leave his bike here, he wanted to be sure he could find it. He’d go back up the stream and mark where it