“What’s your idea, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave.
“Me not know. Much queer. Cattle rustlers no drive steers in woods. Never I see anything like it.”
“Or I either,” said Bob. “The only thing we’re certain of is that some one was hanging around this camp.”
“Makes a fellow feel kind of shivery to think of it, too,” admitted Larry.
“And that either he or they started a stampede.”
“And just made a botch of it,” suggested Tom Clifton. “They wanted to drive the plagued brutes one way, and, instead, they beat it right for our camp. Then the rustlers, afraid of being seen, gave us a mighty wide berth, but caught up with ’em outside the woods.”
“Not bad deduction, Tom,” commented Sam Randall, who had gathered together a collection of pine-knots for torches.
“It hardly seems worth while to make a search now,” remarked Dave. “I’ll bet by this time those chaps are a mighty long distance off.”
Larry Burnham devoutly wished himself back in his Wisconsin home. After all, the half-breed had uttered no idle warning. Here they were, miles and miles from any settlement, at the mercy of the first band of marauders who should choose to attack them. It was a very unpleasant thought. When he looked beyond the rosy glow of the firelight into the thick, awesome blackness, which might be concealing some of the dangerous characters his mind pictured, his nerves tingled unpleasantly. Little sounds before scarcely noticed assumed a deep significance. To his imagination, fired by the unexpected event, it seemed as though footsteps were not far away.
“Come on, Larry,” sang out Tom. “Don’t let’s all keep together, fellows. I’m going this way.”