“I’m with you on that,” said Larry. “Let’s look over Mr. Wilkins’s gun showcase and see if we can find anything that we can afford to buy.”
They moved up to the front of the store, where there was a wall-case of guns and pistols. Almost at once they saw three Winchesters standing side by side in the rack, all alike, and all looking as if they were second-hand. Larry went closer and examined the stock of one of the guns carefully.
“That’s my rifle, Dick,” he whispered. “There’s that bruise on the stock that it got that day last week when old Fishbait rolled down among the rocks with it in the pack. And the other two are yours and Purdy’s!”
“Gee!” said Dick, his eyes widening. “Those rascals stole them and sold them to Mr. Wilkins! Shall we tell him?”
Larry’s answer was the kind he usually made when the emergency demanded action. Going back to the counter where the storekeeper was still figuring with Purdick, he said:
“Mr. Wilkins, we didn’t tell you all that happened to us at that camp of ours over in the back country. The bear that tore us up was a pretty sly old Silver-tip. Besides eating up most of our grub, he took our guns and all of our ammunition.”
The bearded storekeeper laughed.
“What’s this you’re givin’ me now?” he asked.
“Straight goods,” said Larry soberly. “We had three Winchesters of the latest model, chambered for high-powered ammunition, and a good supply of cartridges for them.”