They stood in rather close formation, Bob and the Mounty facing each other, Jim so that he could observe anything approaching by either of two other points of the compass, and Bradshaw scowling fiercely and thumbing young Caldwell’s book.
“You’ve got to explain this,” he thundered.
“It’s nothing but school reports, tests and names of classmates. You needn’t go cribbing it,” Bob growled angrily.
“What you American kids doing here anyway? Got a permit a fly into Canada?” Bradshaw demanded, but his eyes were narrowed as he focused them on the surrounding brush, his gun in hand. Suddenly he whipped it up almost to Bob’s ear, and snapped:
“Come out of that you fellow.”
Then followed a snarling curse, a smashing through underbrush, and the sharp crack of the automatic. Like a panther Bradshaw leaped forward and in an instant he dragged forth one of the pair who had come to head him off, but galloping hoofs and wild oaths proclaimed the departure of the other three. A moment later there wasn’t a sound of them. The Mounty snapped handcuffs on his captive, trussed his feet, and shoved him along out of earshot.
“Pat,” he called and the big horse trotted to his side. “Don’t let him move.” Pat promptly stepped over the man, who howled in terror, and lightly planted one hoof on his coat, pinning him securely.
“Some horse,” Bob whispered with admiration.
“Now, you fellows give an account of yourselves. How did you happen to come down right here just as those lads were getting funny?” He spoke so sharply that the younger boy was sure the man believed they were a party to the hold-up, but Jim merely scowled back.
“Aw you ground hog. Our motor stalled up there and I couldn’t get it going until we almost smashed. Can you understand that?”