"Mebbe they think as how we ain't good nuff fur 'em," growled Tom Smull disagreeably, in an aside, to Griffin.
"We don't have a chance to pay many calls out here," said Bob; "eh, Dave? What's that, Jimmy—did we fire those shots you heard?—Sure thing. Whoa, boy!"
He sprang from the saddle and picketed his broncho, the others following an instant later.
With gloomy feelings, more from their failure to find any trace of Dick Travers than the knowledge that from now on a battle of wits would have to be played, the boys trailed after their conductors. They had recognized all but one, having seen them several times at Cap Slater's lumber camp. The exception was a large, rotund person with flabby cheeks, a snub nose, and a long, flowing mustache of a tawny yellow. His attire was strikingly different from that of his companions. He wore a loud, checkered suit, and a vest which had once been white covered his capacious chest. A bright crimson tie fluttered in the breeze, while a derby hat, looking ridiculously small, was perched on the back of his head. The men addressed him as Buck James.
"Bet he never swung an axe in any lumber camp," whispered Sam to Bob. "Looks like a horsy chap—a sport—to me. Cracky! Wonder what Jack thinks now?"
"Judging by that awful scowl he's wearing, a whole lot," said Bob. "I can't bother about anything but Dick. Look out, Jack."
The big boy's elbow had poked him sharply in the ribs.
"Can you beat it?" exclaimed Conroy, in a hoarse whisper. "Did you ever hear of such nerve in your life? Are you going to put up with it, Bob Somers?"
"Only providing we can't put it down. It's for us to show 'em what kind of stuff we're made of."
"An' we'll do the trick, too," snapped Tim Lovell. "Jacky, can we break your rule number one, now? An', say, Pete C-o-l-l-i-v-e-r!"