“Can’t you get off and stop a while?” Darrel asked.
“No. We’re bound for Gold Hill. Been kicked out of Camp Hawtrey.”
“Kicked out? Great Scott! What do you mean by that, Bleek?”
“Down at the bottom of it, we’re friends of yours, and Jode don’t want us around. Something happened up at the camp, this afternoon, that brought matters to a show-down.”
“What was that?”
Bleeker crooked one knee around the saddle horn and rested easily while he told about the trouble over the coyote dog.
“That’s what happened,” said he, when the recital was finished, “and I’ll bet a pound of prunes against a toothpick that Jode’s laying to unload a little of the trouble onto you.”
“How could he do that?” queried Darrel.
“Why, by making his uncle believe that your unholy influence sent Merriwell and Clancy to our camp to kick up a row. Parkham has already been sent to the Hill after the colonel. He’ll be out here, bright and early, to-morrow morning; then Jode will sing his little song and make the colonel believe just what he wants him to. The friendly relations of the two clubs have had a knock-out blow. There’ll be nothing doing, in an athletic way, for some time to come. Pretty tough on Merriwell. But he’ll come out all right, for that’s a way he has. Get well as quick as you can, pard, and then come on to Gold Hill. There are a lot of us there that are ready to fight for you. Buenas noches!”
Bleeker straightened around in his saddle and rattled his spurs. Presently he and Hotchkiss were clattering away along the main trail in the direction of home.