The men, possibly believing Pete Colliver's explanation to be the right one, were already searching around, and a cold perspiration began to stand out upon Dick Travers' face when his eyes caught the metallic gleam of their guns.
"Gracious!" he thought. "Dicky, you're in a precious bad fix. It won't do to stay here two seconds longer."
Torches were sending yellow streaks flaring among the trees and bushes. Any instant their rays might reveal his presence. Dick instantly began to work his way toward the main trunk, the faint noise of his progress drowned by the crashing of many feet in the brush.
"Wal, the varmint's scooted!" cried Pete, presently.
"Scooted nothin'!" snorted Jimmy. "Didn't I tell ye I hearn 'im away back thar? The critter follered us, jist a-waitin' ter jump down on somebody's neck. Hey, what was that?"
Dick Travers' foot had slipped as he rested it upon a limb, and, in an effort to save himself, he had caused the branches and leaves to rattle sharply.
"Hey! What was that?" repeated Jimmy, in affrighted tones.
"I reckon it's a painter, sure nuff, boys!" cried Tom Smull, falling hastily back toward the fire. "Watch yerselves, or he'll chaw yer head off!"
"Skeered, eh?" sneered Bart Reeder. "Don't ye think we uns is more'll a match fur one pesky varmint, Smull? Come out o' that, an' stan' up to it like a man."
"Scar't! I ain't scar't o' nothink that walks," retorted Tom Smull, hotly; "eh, Griffin? By gum, listen ter that!"