When he arrived at the other mound he was surprised not to find his chum lying there sleeping. Jerry had vanished in a most incomprehensible manner!
At first, Frank thought the other might be trying to play one of his practical jokes upon him. He called, but there came back no answer.
Then he dropped down to examine the ground, having been tutored by the Penobscot Indians of the northern woods; and, finding tracks, he knew that the worst had happened. Jerry had undoubtedly fallen into the hands of their foes!
CHAPTER VIII—OLD ENEMIES APPEAR
“Bend your head a little. Now, look pleasant, as a fellow should after slaying a couple of ferocious wildcats. Ready? Then here she goes!”
Snap!
Bluff had been posing, with Jerry’s gun in his hands. At his feet, artistically stretched out, were the two defunct invaders of the night camp. Will had his camera in position, and was taking a snapshot of the mighty Nimrod.
“After all it’s only a big fake, for I never had a hand in the killing at all,” declared Bluff, with a laugh.
“Fake? No more than most of the pictures you see, where some well-known person is photographed with a big bear at his feet, or perhaps it’s a moose. I guess I know. But it gives me a picture, and neither Jerry nor Frank would bother posing. You’re really the only accommodating pard in camp, Bluff,” remarked Will.
“Oh, rats! you only say that because you can smooth me over, and get me to consent to helping you out in these dreadful frauds of pictures. I reckon I’ll never hear the last of it if Mame Crosby ever learns how I stood for this, when others claimed the game,” grunted Bluff.