“What—what—what——” began Larry Burnham, frantically throwing aside his enfolding blanket.
“Who’s that shooting?” cried Tom.
Thunderbolt alone made no comment, but sprang toward the darkness, while the others, with wide, staring eyes, sought to penetrate its mysteries. And as they stood there, with every feeling of sleepiness entirely gone, the same awe-inspiring cries and cracking of a pistol began again.
“Fall flat on your faces! Get back of a tree!” yelled Larry, in terror. “It must be cattle rustlers or smugglers.”
He was about to follow his own advice when the heavy crashing in the woods, which at no time had ceased, broke forth with renewed violence.
Several huge, indistinct forms were seen making toward the fire. Larry, for an instant too startled to move, uttered a piercing yell.
“Save yourselves!” he called out frantically.
Then, breaking the spell which had seemed to hold him fast, he made a wild dash for safety.
“The cattle are stampeding, fellows!” shouted Bob Somers.
There was no time, in that moment of confusion and alarm, for any concerted action. Each lad was compelled to depend entirely upon himself.