“Don’t be a chump, Freeman,” he said in a low voice, “Rob Blake is more than your match. Let him go. There are other ways to get at him.”
Rob and his chums did not hear this last remark, and bidding the others “Good-night,” a politeness which was not responded to, they continued on their way, leaving behind them three astonished and angry lads, and the two youths who already had shown in numerous ways that they wished all the harm possible to the Boy Scouts.
“Wonder how Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender got out of their trouble in Arizona?” mused Merritt, as they hastened along through the fast-gathering gloom.
“Don’t know,” responded Tubby, and neither could Rob furnish any explanation. It was not until they entered the village that they learned the true reason of the unscrupulous youths’ presence in Hampton. The little place was a-buzz with it, and various plans of protest were talked over. But, as is the case in most small towns in a matter of that kind, no one was willing to “bell the cat,” namely, notify Jack’s and Bill’s parents that the boys were not wanted. So they remained in town, and their presence soon became unremarked. In the meantime, however, an alliance had been formed between Freeman Hunt and his particular friends and Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender, which boded ill for our lads. To the warnings of their boy friends, however, Rob, Merritt and Tubby only rejoined with laughter. They felt that they had nothing to fear from such a company, in which, as the sequel will show, they were very much mistaken.
On Rob’s arrival at home that night, he hastened to his room to remove all traces of his encounter. Washed and dressed, he was about to descend to the library, when, to his astonishment, he heard a strange voice conversing with his father in that room. Yet there was something familiar in the tones, too. Where had he heard it before? At last Rob heard “Good-nights” exchanged between his father and the stranger, and soon after came the swift “chug-chug” of an auto, which, apparently, had been driven around the house, for the boy had not noticed it when he returned home.
“Who was your visitor, father?” inquired Rob, as he sat down to dinner that evening.
“Why, a Lieutenant Duvall, of the regular army,” was the rejoinder. “Do you know him?”
Mr. Blake broke off abruptly, for Rob had given a cry of astonishment as he heard the name.
“Know him? I should say so. Why, he’s the fellow who led those troops into the Moqui Valley. Don’t you remember, when they were giving the snake dance, and——”
“Oh, Rob, I cannot bear to hear about such things!” exclaimed his mother. “You might have been killed by those Indians.”