“Got a gun?”
“Yep—what is it?”
“Come on. Deborah’s kidnapped—they’re evidently after Dorothy. They’re in the house now!”
The last sentence was hurled at Osceola as the two lads, both barefoot and in pajamas, raced downstairs and across the broad entrance hall to the front door.
“Wire was cut while Dorothy phoned,” panted Bill, pushing back the bolt and twisting the key in the lock.
Osceola uttered not a word, but he was first through the open door and took the porch steps at a single leap, Bill at his heels. They sprinted down the turf along the driveway, and were nearing the stone wall that bounded the Bolton property, when a car without lights swung into the road from the Dixon place and sped toward Stamford.
Without slackening in speed, the young chief spoke quietly. “Don’t fire. The wall hides the wheels—Debby might get hurt.”
“Could you—see her?”
“No. But I heard that little gat of Dorothy’s go just now. She’s still in the house.”
By this time they were crossing the road in two bounds and side by side they hurdled the Dixons’ white picket fence like hounds let loose from a leash.