“Great Scott!” exclaimed Sam, as Tom stopped wringing his hand for an instant. “It is you, all right. I thought I was pretty sure of you when I peeked into Bully Banjo’s camp yesterday when he had you on the carpet.”
“But, Sam,” cried Tom excitedly, “what are you doing here, and——” He broke off as a sudden explanation of the mysterious arrival of the knife flashed across him.
“It was you that lowered that knife!”
“Sure,” said Sam easily; “but, say, boys, we’re in a bad place right here. Let’s get back in the brush. I’ve got some grub there and a clean shirt apiece for you. I guess you’re in need of both,” he went on, with a smile, surveying the two dilapidated young figures.
“That’s right. Especially the grub part of it,” laughed Tom. “But, Sam, I can’t get over the mystery of it. You being here and arriving just in time to help us out of what seemed such a dickens of a mess.”
Yet it was simple enough as Sam explained to them a few moments later. He had been in Seattle when Mr. Chillingworth’s letter reached the Secret Service Department in Washington. His chief at the capital city had at once wired him in cipher to drop the case he was on and proceed with all haste to the neighborhood of the Chillingworth ranch.
In the guise of a prospector, Sam had been in the hills for some days, and, by a stroke of luck, he had encountered the day before the trail of the men he was after. An unlucky slip had betrayed his presence in the brush. It was that disturbance, it will be recalled, that had so excited Bully Banjo and his men.
He had seen and heard enough from his place of concealment, however, to know that two boys were in trouble, and it was no part of Sam Hartley’s nature not to try and help them. From various points of vantage among the rocks and trees on the cliffside he had watched all that had taken place subsequently in the camp of Bully Banjo.
After revolving one or two plans of rescue, it had occurred to him that his best plan would be to lower the knife, which the boys had put to such excellent use. From his eyrie high up on the cliffside above the cavern, he had later heard the shots at the river edge, and had surmised what was taking place. He had concluded, though, that the boys had been shot and killed as they reached the water, and had left the place while it was still dark, with a heavy heart.
What he had seen had enraged him still more against the men he had been sent to track, and he had made all haste back to his camp which was back of the “gate” in the rocks. It had occurred to him after his arrival there, though, that in the event of the boys having been killed their bodies might be carried down by the current. He had therefore posted himself by the narrow gateway in order to watch for them. His amazement when he encountered the Bungalow Boys safe and sound on their queer raft was only equaled by his delight.