“You hear what these lads say again, Nackerson?” resumed the owner of Lumber Run Camp, as he once more wheeled and faced the three sportsmen, with the dog cowering at their feet rubbing at his injured muzzle and whimpering.
“Oh, they gave us that song before; but we knew they were lying!” declared the other. “Boys never tell the truth. They’ll beat around the bush every time. I know just as sure as I’m standing here that they did something to my dog. On the train they tried to break his back by upsetting a heavy pack on him. And I’ve about made up my mind to show them they’re barking up the wrong tree if they think they can play their monkey-shines on Bill Nackerson.”
“I heard all about that incident of the smoker, Nackerson,” Mr. Darrel told him sternly, “and they assured me they had no hand in your dog’s hurt. He upset the pack on himself by squirming around and getting his rope caught in it.”
“Bah! Tell that to the marines!” snarled the other, now looking dangerously ugly, so that Frank felt a great relief when he discovered out of the tail of his eye that Bluff was slipping from the cabin door, and that he carried both guns.
Given half a minute more, and they would not feel they were an inferior force.
Fortunately neither of the men with the bully had noticed what Bluff was doing.
“Well,” said Mr. Darrel, “you don’t think that I’ll stand here and see you lay a finger on any one of these boys without protesting, do you?”
“I’d advise you to keep out of this mess, Mr. Darrel,” continued the other. “I’m not the man to be interfered with, once they get me riled up. And both of my friends here are going to stand back of me. So don’t you try to raise that gun of yours, or somebody will get hurt.”
“That’s so, Mr. Nackerson,” chimed in another voice just then, “and the first one to feel it will be you!”
Frank knew it was Bluff who made this assertion. He could see that the other had leaned one gun against a tree, and was leveling his own weapon straight at the intruder.