“Yes, he must have gone back to Frischette’s in the hope of meeting Rand. But you may depend upon it, he’ll give a good account of himself.”
“Toma’s a trump,” said Sandy, closing his eyes and speaking drowsily. “I couldn’t help but admire the way he leaped for that thicket at the first sound from Burnnel and Emery. He’s quicker than we are. Pretty hard to catch him off guard.”
“And yet,” answered Dick, “I can’t understand why he didn’t linger in the vicinity. That would have been more like him. Waiting and watching for a chance to get the drop on them, and then rescuing us. Just thrilling enough to suit him. Funny he didn’t do it.”
Sandy sat up, smiling.
“I think he left his gun behind—over there at Meade’s. I’ll bet he was provoked. He must have decided that the best thing to do was to hurry back to Frischette’s and rush Corporal Rand to our assistance.”
Although the days were warm, the nights were invariably cool. It would not be pleasant to sleep out without blankets. Nor was it possible to start a fire. Every article they possessed, including a box of matches, had been taken by the two outlaws.
They slept but ill. Mosquitos buzzed about them in swarms. They kept up an incessant fight with these vicious pests, shivering on their bed of moss, waking every few minutes to wonder if morning would never come.
Somewhere around three o’clock, they rose and made their way back in the direction of the road-house. It was too early yet to think about disturbing any of its occupants. Burnnel and Emery would still be there, and they had no wish to meet them again. Hungry as they were, and sleepy, they realized that it would not be advisable to approach the cabin until after the outlaws had departed.
“When we get something to eat, and borrow a rifle or two from Meade,” said Dick, “I suppose we’ll have to trail on after them.”
Sandy glanced at Dick sharply.