Before he could follow Jack’s example, however, the tent flap was again thrust aside and Jack returned followed by Frank.
The latter’s face was white. In one hand he still gripped his automatic.
Bob stared at his comrades in astonishment too great for a moment for speech. And in the silence the yells of the natives could be heard withdrawing into the distance.
Frank flung himself into a camp chair. His revolver dropped from his relaxed fingers, and he put up his hands to his face. Bob saw he was trembling. Jack stooped and put an arm across his comrade’s shoulders.
“What in the world’s the matter?” cried Bob, finding his tongue at last. “What happened?”
“I haven’t got it straightened out,” said Jack, shaking his head. “It was all over when I got outside. Give Frank a minute’s time to collect himself. He had a bad experience, I guess.” He patted the smaller youth’s shoulder. “Take your time, old boy,” he said soothingly. “It’s all over now.”
Bob sank back onto his flea bag. This was too much for him, his expression of profound bewilderment seemed to say.
Frank looked up and essayed a smile. But it was ghastly in result.
“Guess you fellows think I’m crazy,” he said, in a shaking voice. “But it’s no joke to have to shoot at a man. I never get over the shakes when it’s necessary.”
“What?” cried Jack.