“One thing we must all remember, however,” Jack said firmly. “That is, not to take chances. Keep a considerable distance from the enemy. We don’t want to shoot any of them, but merely to frighten them into withdrawing.”
“All right,” said Bob, impatient for action. “Come on.”
Examining their revolvers by flashlight to see that all was in order, the boys scrambled ashore with Frank in the lead, as he had acquired a familiarity with the route. The boat was tied securely to the bank.
Walking in Indian file, they proceeded along the trail to the bend earlier described by Frank. Rounding it, they saw open before them the valley of which Frank also had spoken. Although there was no moon, their eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and by the pale light of the stars they could see sufficiently well to gain a good idea of their surroundings.
The valley broadened out to the width of, perhaps, half a mile. Close to them on the left was the hill crowned by the stockade. This hill, bare of verdure and low, jutted up from the floor of the valley and independent of the higher hills behind it. The posts
of the stockade made a serrated line against the clear night sky.
“Murphy’s men must be close at hand,” Bob whispered.
“It was right here that I almost stumbled on them before,” answered Frank, low-voiced. “We must be careful.”
“Look there. I saw someone moving,” said Jack, gripping Bob’s arm, and pointing ahead.
They stood pressed against the canyon wall, trying to pierce the darkness. Everything was so shadowy and unreal, however, that Frank’s gaze following where Jack indicated could make nothing of it, nor could Bob discern anything to indicate the presence of the enemy. At that moment Matt Murphy’s voice raised in a guarded hail came from the shadows in the direction to which Jack had pointed.