A peculiar call, like a war-whoop, suddenly trilled through the darkness.
“Me by the fire,” yelled Thunderbolt. “You come.”
Guided by a frequent repetition of his shouts, the lads were soon able to steer themselves in the proper direction.
Bob Somers was the first to reach the fire, whose embers had been scattered by the cattle. Thunderbolt, busily replenishing it, looked up.
“Anybody hurt?” he demanded, anxiously.
“None of us; not a bit,” laughed Bob. “Here come the fellows now.”
Dusky forms were pushing their way toward them as fast as circumstances would allow. And it was a highly mystified and still excited crowd which, a moment later, were gathered together once more.
“Goodness gracious, Bob!” began Tom. “Talk about narrow escapes! Maybe I’m not glad everybody’s safe and sound. Honest—one of those hulking big brutes grazed me. Come anywhere near you, Dave?”
“Just a few yards away,” answered the stout boy. “I kept on running as hard as I could until something tripped me, and I fell flat on my face. Fortunately the cattle missed me.”
Thunderbolt remained impassive—silent, during a series of thrilling recitals. Larry Burnham told of having been struck a heavy, glancing blow by one of the animals. From the expression on his face it was very evident the experience had greatly terrified him.