“What do you mean?” gasped Pratt, his face blazing and his fists clenched. “You dare harm her—”
Pete was slapping him about the pockets to make sure he carried no weapon. Now he struck Pratt a heavy blow across the mouth, cutting his lips and making his ears ring.
“Shut up, you young jackanapes!” commanded the man. “I’ll hurt her and you, too, if I like.”
“And Captain Dan Rugley won’t rest till he sees you well punished if you harm her,” mumbled Pratt.
Pete struck at him again. Pratt dodged back. And at that moment Frances disappeared!
The man had only had his eyes off her for half a minute. He gasped, his jaw dropped, and his bloodshot eyes roved all about, trying to discover Frances’ whereabouts.
He had not realized that, despite her fear, the girl of the ranges had had her limbs drawn up and her muscles taut ready for a spring.
His attention given for the moment to Pratt Sanderson, Frances had risen and dodged behind the bole of the tree against which she was leaning, a carefully watched prisoner.
She would never have escaped so easily had it been Ratty in charge; for his mental processes were quicker than those of Pete.
Flitting from tree to tree, keeping one or more of the big trunks between her and Pete’s roving eyes while still he was speechless, she was traveling farther and farther from the camp.