“Did you shoot them?” asked Pat.
Frank shook his head.
“They shot at us,” he said. “They fired as soon as we got to the rim of the dip, but missed because of the smoke and the wind. Then we rushed them, and they went down—to escape punishment, I thought—and so Ned got the aeroplane away.”
“Then you had nothing to do with their death,” consoled Pat. “They came here to commit a crime and were overcome by the smoke and heat.”
Frank would gladly have accepted this version of what had taken place, but he could not bring his mind to do so at once. The horror of what he had found in the cave was still upon him.
Leaving the spot where what remained of the outlaws lay, the boys hastened to the wall of rock which terminated the plateau on the east. The rain had indeed saved the tents from destruction. The canvas was huddled against the wall, stained with smoke and heavy with rain, but in fairly good condition.
“We’ll have to remain here, or about here, until Ned comes,” Pat said, “so we may as well put the tents up. I wonder if it isn’t most morning?”
“Does that mean that you are getting hungry?” grinned Jack.
“You bet it does!” was the reply. “Anyway, I’m going to see if I can find dry wood enough for a fire. If I can I’ll make some hot coffee. Ned will see the fire, and know we are not in the cave.”
Then an exclamation from Frank called the speaker’s attention to the clear sky over the divide. The upper strata of clouds were drifting westward on a high current of air—what few clouds there were—and far up in the blue, the moonlight trimming the planes with silver, rode the aeroplane, seemingly intact, and working back on the high current toward the Pacific coast.