The men, raging mad, scrambled over the ledge and down the hillside in snow up to their armpits, endeavoring to overtake the two chums who had met with disaster.
“Don’t let ’em get our skis!” Phil cried to Max. “They can get away if you do! Shove ’em down the hill!”
With almost one motion, two pairs of skis were sent sliding, riderless, down the hillside. One of them caught against a log but the other three shot on and on, too far down to retrieve.
The short, stubby man was forced to call for help, with snow too deep for him. Extricated by the tall ringleader, he floundered back to the ledge while his two companions plunged on to capture Phil and Max.
“You boys will pay for this!” gasped the bandit chief as he grabbed them savagely by the collars. “What’s the idea of running away, huh? Go to tell on us, eh?”
Back on the ledge, the short, stubby man rushed into the shack and came out with a high-powered long range rifle. He knelt on one knee and sighted it after the diminishing figure of Bill Stewart who was descending the hill at a breakneck pace and just about to rush up an incline where his body would be a good target against the white snow.
“I get him!” cried the stocky bandit.
Max, heart palpitating, made a megaphone of his hands.
“Look out, Bill!” he shouted. “Stay off that hill! Stay off!”
His voice reverberated out over the hillside before his words were cut short by his being cuffed head first into the snow. Bill, hearing, swerved his skis to the side, turned them up on edge and took a tumbling, skidding spill. As he did so a rifle spat fire ... rat-tat-tat-tat ... but he dropped down out of sight behind a snow-covered clump of bushes. The bandit’s rifle shook snow from these bushes but Phil and Max, now mutely watching, saw Bill’s body appear as he crawled along on hands and knees, around rather than over the hill, pushing his skis ahead of him and offering the smallest kind of a target.