“Psst!” came a sound from the leader of the Indian file, and Lanky signaled back to Frank to come forward.
“There’s a house and a barn, and here’s a path leading to them!”
That was true, but, again Frank was trying to find a reason for this blind following of a trail which had opened up to them so very suddenly.
Surely there were hundreds of just such houses and barns along the banks of the Harrapin, places inhabited by small farmers who dwelt along the stream, and all of them probably owned a small boat with which to cross the river or fish. Certainly, there was nothing about this particular house and this particular barn to cause them any anxiety or any feelings of discovery.
Where would this trail lead them? What was there to make them think the robbers or the loot or any information about either lay at the end of the trail?
“Let’s sneak up there and see what is the lie of the land,” murmured Lanky, ready to proceed at a signal from Frank.
There was no move on the part of the latter. There was no expression of face or body to indicate to Lanky that his suggestion had been heard. He looked at Frank’s troubled expression in question, wondering why there was no instant desire to move.
“What’s the matter, Frank? Don’t you think this is the right place? There is the boat——”
“We—ll, all right, let’s see what we see. Let’s go along mighty carefully. Don’t disturb anything.”
Like Indians stalking their prey, every nerve at tension, every muscle under perfect control, ready for action of any kind, the inner urge of adventure pulsing through the veins of four of them, they crept slowly, stealthily, forward.