“No, Frank; thanks to that fine head of his. What are we going to do?”
Frank walked over to a corner of the room and picked up a Winchester rifle, which he examined, a resolute grimness on his handsome face.
“We’re going to find that little house near Windmill Station,” he said, in a calm, low voice. “And when we find it, Buckhart, there will be something doing.”
Another night had fallen when a party of at least a dozen persons, all armed and ready for anything that might take place, surrounded and crept up to the little house where Dick was held a prisoner near Windmill Station. Frank led this party, and when the house was thoroughly surrounded, he advanced without hesitation to the door, Buckhart at his side, carrying in his hand an axe.
“Give me the axe!” whispered Merry, as he extended his rifle to Brad.
A moment later a crashing blow fell on the heavy door. When of a sudden Frank swung the axe and made blow after blow at the door, it shook, and cracked, and splintered before the attack upon it.
“Lay on! lay on!” urged Cap’n Wiley, who was close at hand and ready for the encounter. “Knock the everlasting jimblistered stuffing out of her!”
Within the hut there was no small commotion.
Dick had been waiting. He heard the first blow, and it brought him to his feet with a bound. He heard the ruffianly guards in the outer room uttering excited exclamations. Then he shouted: