Frank and Will looked very threatening as they advanced. Both of them had their guns leveled, and besides, the latter was encumbered with his camera, so that he presented the appearance of being fairly loaded down with war material.
"Hey, Jerry, open up!" called Frank.
The door of the shack immediately began to move, and presently it was shoved aside, with the ax still sticking in its planking, just as Andy had left it.
"Talk about your rescue parties, say, don't this take the cake?" exclaimed a familiar voice, and Jerry's head was thrust out of the opening.
"Is Bluff there?" demanded Frank.
"Sure," came in the voice of their missing chum.
A second head had by this time shown up.
"Hey, you, Franky boy, what d'ye mean bombarding our camp in this way? What have we done to your crowd, I'd like to know, to be treated like dogs? First there was that Bluff Masters a-walkin' in here an' accusing us of stealing his blamed old gun, when the only one we've got is a musket Pet owns. Now you come tearing up things."
Andy was evidently getting indignant; but all the same he kept on the watch, and whenever he thought he saw one of those weapons pointing in his direction he slipped quietly behind one of the others.
"That's all right. Bluff has lost his gun; somebody took it from our camp last night just after a shower of rocks came in on us and we rushed out to find the fellow who sent them. He thought it was one of your crowd, and I guess he came over to ask. What business had you tying him up like a convict, tell me that?"