“If yuh didn’t bury it in a safe place, yuh’ll have to answer for it.”
“Plenty safe,” they heard Pierre Mekewai answer.
A roar of ribald laughter was followed by splintering glass. Evidently, they had already finished one bottle and had broken it. The voices subsided a little hereafter and the three boys were straining their ears in an effort to make out what was being said, when a soft, cat-like tread sounded behind them.
Dick whirled, his hand darting to the revolver at his side. Sandy gave a low exclamation of dismay. Toma grunted. Approaching them was the other Mekewai brother. He carried a rifle. His pock-scarred face was twisted in a hideous leer.
“What you fellow do here?” he demanded.
“Haven’t we a right to sit here if we want to?” trembled Dick.
“You go ’way pretty quick,” threatened the Indian.
The boys rose to their feet, feeling like culprits caught in the act of committing some petty offense.
“You go quick,” snarled the Indian. “If you come back again, next time I shoot.”