"What's that grunt for?" sniffed Jack.
Tommy's face was turned inquiringly toward Bob Somers.
"What do you think of it—hunters, eh?" he queried, earnestly.
"Search me, Tom."
"What in the dickens do we care who it is?" growled Jack, shrugging his shoulders. "This gold—er—er—Jabberwock, I mean, has you chaps all nervous; it beats the Dutch how you're actin'. Don't you all begin chirpin' 'bout me again; mind now."
"Perhaps it's the same crowd that was camping out near the ranch-house," remarked Dave, thoughtfully.
"I hardly suppose they would be keeping so close to us as that," said Bob.
"Unless they had a good reason to," hinted Tim, darkly.
"Oh, shucks! Listen to him!" scoffed Jack. "Didn't you ever hear o' hunters an' trappers before?"
"An' nine broncs plungin' through underbrush an' grass an' swampy ground have made a trail that any good woodsman could follow." Tim appealed to the others: "Eh, fellows?"