“Evidently.”
There came another whistling in the air, as a second projectile whizzed by.
“We ought to have them arrested,” exclaimed Harry indignantly.
“How are we to prove who fired the shots?” rejoined Frank.
He was right. At the time they whizzed by the aeroplane was over a clump of woods which effectually concealed from her occupants the identity of the wielder of the rifle. Barr’s party had evidently speeded their autos in under the trees and were firing from them. No more bullets came, however. Probably the shooters saw the futility of trying to get good aim through the thick foliage.
Camp that night was made beside a small river, in which Witherbee soon caught a fine mess of yellow perch. These, cooked with the old plainsman’s skill, made an agreeable variation from the usual camp fare, and were despatched by the hungry boys in an incredibly short time.
Of the other aeroplane they had seen nothing since they passed her in the afternoon.
“This means we get a good long lead,” rejoiced Frank.
But the boys were doomed to disappointment, for shortly before midnight the whirring noise of an engine was heard overhead, and, looking upward, the adventurers, awakened by Billy, who was on watch, saw a dark body pass overhead.
“It’s Slade’s machine!” cried Frank.