“Murder!” said Dick in a stifled whisper; and Larry didn’t say even that much. For now they both saw what they had failed to see from the down-valley point of view; namely, a collection of roughly built shacks half hidden in a grove of pines, with a number of men moving about among them.
“Spies, eh?” remarked the big man who had accosted them; then, with the smile fading slowly out of the eye-wrinkles: “Who sent you two kids up here?”
“Nobody,” Larry answered shortly.
“Ump!” grunted the giant. “Just doing a bit of Sherlocking on your own account, are you? I suppose you belong to Herb Ackerman’s outfit, don’t you?”
Larry made no reply to this; and Dick, taking his cue promptly, was also silent.
“No sulking—not with me!” growled the big man harshly. “I can make you talk if I want to. How many men are there in your outfit, and whereabouts are they working now?”
Larry’s square jaw set itself like that of a bull-dog that had been told to let go and wouldn’t.
“You’ll have to find that out for yourself,” he snapped.
The inquisitor held out a hand.
“Give me that note-book!” he commanded.