“Easy, now,” Frank shouted, moving away to the south. “If any of you ginks lift a finger until we get into the timber line, I’ll empty this load of slugs into the thick of you.”
The leader, more daring than the others, sprang down the slope, his great boots scattering fragments of rock and sending them hurtling down upon the heads of the half-breeds below. Frank was about to fire when the man lost his balance and joined the procession of those making for the bottom a la log.
“Here we go!” shouted Frank.
The boys raced along the slope until they came to a point of timber which, following a more fertile spot, thrust itself up the ascent. Here they disappeared, considering themselves reasonably safe in the seclusion of the forest. Frank examined his gun and found it empty.
“Good thing that dub didn’t know it was empty!” he laughed.
“Don’t stop now to throw bouquets at yourself!” grinned Harry.
“That’s right!” Jack declared. “We want to be getting back to the camp. Gilroy’ll have a fit if he wakes up and finds us gone.”
“Don’t you ever think those half-breeds will give up the chase here,” Frank suggested. “Do you know what they’ll do?” he asked, “They’ll circle around and get between us and the camp! That’s what they’ll do.”
“I sometimes think,” Harry snorted, turning to Jack, “that Frank is getting so intelligent that he may have the gift of speech conferred upon him. He certainly has that proposition right.”
“Well, if we can’t go back to camp,” Jack asked, “where can we go?”