“I don’t know what to think,” rejoined Jack in a puzzled tone; “suppose we ask the professor and Pete first.”
“A good idea,” chorused the other boys. “Well, boys,” said the professor anxiously, “not being as well versed in such things as our friend Mr. Coyote, I shall defer to him. One thing, however, I noticed, and that was that the note is worded in fair English, although badly written in an uneducated hand.”
“Maybe whoever wrote it wished to disguise his writing,” ventured Walt Phelps.
“That’s my idee of it,” grunted Coyote Pete; “yer see,” he went on, “ther thing looks this yer way ter me. Some chap who knows of a plot on foot ter keep us frum the Chinipal, wanted to do us a good turn, but didn’t dare be seen in our company. So he hits on this way of doing it and gits drilled with a bullet fer his pains.”
Walt Phelps colored brilliantly. He felt ashamed of his haste.
“Don’t be upsot over it,” said Pete, noticing this, “it’s ther chap’s own fault fer dashing in on us that way. I reckon, though, he kalkerlated on finding us asleep, an’ so we would have bin if it hadn’t a bin fer Mister flaming b’ar.”
“The question is, are we to heed this warning, or is it, what I believe is sometimes termed a bluff?” asked the professor anxiously. He drew his blankets about his skinny figure as he spoke, and stood in the firelight looking like a spectacled and emaciated ancient statue.
Coyote Pete considered a minute.
“Suppose we leave that till the morning fer discussion,” he said. “In my judgment, it will be best fer you folks ter turn in now and sleep ther rest of ther night.”
“And you, Pete?” asked Jack.