Jake put his mouth close to Jerry’s ear. “Say, I know I heard something—there, right back of the tent! Somebody must be following us!”
“Well, what of it? They can’t see us in the dark. All the more reason to hurry. Ready?” He fished Alexander forth. “Quick, now—lift up the covers and I’ll chuck him in——” He got no further.
Boom! A thunderous explosion came from a few feet away, and a brilliant flare lit the scene like a flash of lightning.
With daylight clearness, the startled raiders could see every feature of their surroundings, standing out from the night. It was like a stage play. The inside of Tent Fifteen was lit with a blinding radiance. In a cleared space at the open rear of the tent, Sherlock Jones stood, a flaming flashlight-pan held high over his head with one hand, his other hand clicking the shutter of the camera, placed on a tripod and aimed straight at the bunk over which bent the white faces of the Utway twins. In the darkness, Sherlock had poured more powder into the pan than would have been necessary to light the scene of action, and the resulting explosion had been greater than he was prepared for.
Jerry jumped backward, for in the momentary light from the pan he had seen Mr. Colby’s eyes open and shut again, blinded by the dazzling glare. The boy’s backward movement caused him to bump his head heavily against the mooring-pole, and he saw more stars than those that shone in the July heavens. Alexander dropped from his nerveless hand.
Jake Utway, however, was the most startled of all those whose figures stood out in that brief second of brightness. He could not hold in the cry that came to his lips. Not six inches away from his was a face—the face of a man, wild, desperate, knotted with fear!
For some precious seconds he was too paralyzed to move. The flare had died down, but in his mind’s eye still stood forth, every feature cut clear in his memory, the face of the stranger. That twisted visage, he was sure, belonged to no one of the leaders of Lenape, nor any of the neighboring farmers that he knew. The head was completely bald, the eyes staring from their sockets, clenched teeth glittering between pale, drawn lips. He knew that never, as long as he lived, could he forget that frozen mask of terror.
It seemed ages before he could control his body enough to move. Stumbling blindly beneath the mooring-pole, he made for the shelter of the trees. Behind him came the shrill challenge of Mr. Colby: “Halt! Who goes there? What is it?”
Jake ran. He had gone about twenty yards when he tripped over a clump of brush, fell forward perilously, crashed into the trunk of a tree. He lay stunned where he fell. Dancing sparks flickered before his eyes; a slow pain grew in the left side of his face, which had smashed against the rough bark of a pine.
From a few yards away came the crash of a struggling body, tearing its way through the bushes. “Is that you, Jerry?” he called hoarsely, finding his voice and struggling to a sitting position. There was no answer, but the thrashing sound continued. What was it?