“Oh, well,” he said, half petulantly, “if I’m boring you——”
Art leaned close, and laid a hand on his arm.
“Sorry, Frank,” he said, in a whisper, “but I was a-listenin.’ I got a strange feelin’ like as if somebody had his eyes on the back a’ my head. I wasn’t payin’ no attention to you but a-listenin’ to see if I could hear anything.”
He was so intense that he communicated some of his trepidation to Frank. Instinctively, the latter reached for his rifle as Art half stood up to peer at their twilit surroundings. They were camped in a tiny grove of a half dozen spruces, like an islet in a midst of long, matted grass.
As Art stood up, a single shot rang out, shattering the stillness. He threw himself prone, dragging Frank down with him. Then a fusillade was poured in on them, seemingly from all sides.
CHAPTER XVII.—SURPRISED.
“Watch my back, Frank. Keep low behind that nearest tree and let ’em have it. They’re in that long grass.”
As he spoke Art, worming his way rapidly forward to a position behind the trunk of one of the spruces, began firing rapidly.
Frank, in the opposite direction, fired several shots into the long grass. He had an uncanny feeling, for he could see no forms at which to fire, and the preliminary volley poured into the camp was not repeated, so he had no index as to the enemy positions.
Jack, Bob and Farnum, rolled over, awakened by the shots, but Frank called fiercely: “Keep down.”