“Sure, it’s the spot. Didn’t we hear ’em singing down this way not fifteen minutes ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Guess they must ’a’ thought there wasn’t no one about.”
“Guess they must have. Say! what was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
It was Pod, who, at Chot’s order, was crawling again toward the pile of dry hay and sticks, with the command to touch them off the minute Chot whistled twice.
The men were nearly upon them now, still moving cautiously, when suddenly one of them made out the dim outlines of the tent.
“I see something white,” he said in a low, startled tone.
“Yes; I see it, too,” was the reply. “Get ready to rush ’em, Hank!”
The words were hardly uttered when Chot gave the signal to Pod. There was the crack of a match, the hay ignited quickly, and as the flames sprang up, throwing a yellow glare over the camp, the boys sprang to their feet, prepared to grapple with the intruders. But imagine their surprise when they found themselves gazing into the barrels of four revolvers, and a stentorian voice cried out: