Of course Frank had decided at once that Shawmut and Henry had somehow learned of his expedition in search of Benson Clark’s lost mine and had followed him. Henry’s left hand was swathed in a blood-stained bandage, the sight of which convinced the watching youth that it was this fellow who had snatched the map and who afterward had been winged in the pursuit. In spite of appearances, Frank did not like to believe that Cap’n Wiley had played him false. From his position he was able to hear the conversation of the trio, and so he lay still and listened.
“We sartain is all right here fer ter-night,” observed Shawmut. “We will never be disturbed any afore morning.”
“Perchance you are right, mate,” said the sailor; “but in the morning we must seek the seclusion of some still more secure retreat. My late associate, the only and original Frank Merriwell, will be considerable aroused over what has happened. I am positive it will agitate his equipoise to a protracted extent. My vivid imagination pictures a look of supine astonishment on his intellectual countenance when he returns and finds his whole outfit and little Walter vanished into thin, pellucid air.”
Shawmut laughed hoarsely.
“I certain opine he was knocked silly,” he said.
“But he is a bad man,” put in Henry. “To-morrow he rakes this valley with a fine-toothed comb. And he is a heap keerless with his shooting irons. Look at this yere paw of mine. He done that, and some time I’ll settle with him.”
The fellow snarled the final words as he held up his bandaged hand.
“Yes,” nodded the sailor, “he has a way of shooting in a most obstreperous manner. The only thing that is disturbing my mental placitude is that he may take to the war path in search of my lovely scalp.”
“Confound you!” thought Frank, in great anger. “So you are a traitor, after all! Hodge was right about you. You’re due for a very unpleasant settlement with me, Cap’n Wiley.”
“What binds me to you with links of steel, mates,” said the sailor, “is the fact that you are well supplied with that necessary article of exuberancy known to the vulgar and unpoetical as tanglefoot. Seems to me it’s a long time between drinks.”