Another long, palpitating moment followed. Then the door to the shack was heard to open and Bill bit his lips with anxiety as Phil and Max appeared, hands over their heads, standing on the edge of the ledge overlooking the valley. They glanced up, appealingly at the sheriff and Bill.
“We’re being covered,” Phil informed. “Unless you beat it and leave three pair of skis for them to use, they’re going to shoot us.”
“They mean business,” Max confirmed. “They’ve got lots of ammunition. We’ll be killed if you don’t....”
Suddenly seized with an idea, Bill raised up and motioned to his two chums, imitating a dive off the ledge. Such a dive, Bill reasoned, would take the bandits by complete surprise. The ledge was steep enough so that the chums would immediately disappear from the range of fire ... and with the guns now trained on the shack, the bandits would not dare rush out to execute their threat of murder. Phil and Max nodded to indicate that they understood, both edging backward. Bill grasped the sheriff’s arm and conveyed by gestures what was about to be attempted.
“Three pair of skis,” the sheriff repeated. “Where do they want them...?”
Pushing themselves simultaneously off the ledge in what closely resembled backward swan dives, Phil and Max landed squirming in the snow below. There were oaths and angry exclamations from the shack and a fusillade of shots, all too late and too misdirected to do any damage.
“Keep the shack covered!” roared the sheriff. “Don’t let any of ’em out to take pot shots at the boys!”
This was the danger now as Phil and Max floundered all but helplessly in snow up to their necks.
“How good a tosser are you?” Sheriff Marston asked of Bill.
“Pretty fair,” Bill rejoined, wonderingly.