“All right, Chet,” said Tony easily. “You’re the doctor. We ain’t got guns that are re’lly fit to put up against them beasts. But you’ve got the rifles all right. You’ve killed one o’ them already.”
“Yes. And give us half a chance and we’ll kill another,” the boy said. “Where you going to camp? That stream either rises back in that timber, or some springs that feed it have their rise there.”
“It’s a good place—and gives us shelter, too,” Tony said.
Steve would not even look at the boys, but he headed his tired horse for the grove in question. Dig rode close to Chet and whispered:
“You give them the choice of camps. What’ll we do?”
“We’ll put up with what we can get. I don’t propose to let them get situated where they can look down on us.”
“Oh! I see,” returned his chum, marvelling.
The men had the grace to camp some ways down the hill beside a clear rill. That gave the chums a chance to establish themselves at the head of the run, where the spring bubbled out from under the roots of a gigantic tree. It was a beautiful spot, and, had the boys not been so worried, and so doubtful of their neighbours, they would have considered this an ideal camping place.
Just as they had the horses picketed and their own fire burning, Dig saw Tony ascending the hill. “Here comes that big oaf,” he muttered to Chet. “Look out for him.”
But Tony’s hands were empty and he came along with a foolish kind of grin on his face.