"When we make the Island, what are we to do?" asked Jo.
"Who can tell, maybe Tom and Juarez have been taken along with the Skipper, instead of being marooned."
"That's so," replied Jo, and gloom settled down upon his spirits, heavier than the fog upon the sea.
"We will keep after them," said the never despondent Jim, "even if we have to chase them around the world."
The boat seemed to crawl so slowly along, and the boys began to fret in their eagerness to find out whether their comrades were on the island or not, but they were not yet close enough to make out any object upon its surface. Then from the West there came a breeze rippling the glassy water.
"Up with the sail," cried Jim. "Here's where we fly."
As the breeze strengthened to a wind, they went towards the island at a clipping gait. When they got within a half mile of the shore, they began to look eagerly for some sign of a living being and they were disappointed at first, but they drove their boat along as near the shore as they dared.
"Say, did you hear that?" cried Jim in excitement. "That was a rifle shot, or my name is Dennis."
"Three men on the shore," said the Indian, imperturbably.
"I see them," cried Jo, "on that beach yonder. I believe it is Tom and Juarez. Hurrah for the Frontier Boys."