"He hasn't had it long," averred Matt. "Take it from me, Chub, he wouldn't wait long, after he got hold of the letter, to come out here and see whether your father had been flashing any messages from the Bluebell."
"Somethin' has got to be done, an' done quick!" declared Chub. "We're fightin' a man that's as full of tricks as a 'Pache Injun, an' he's not going to let the McReadys beat him out if he can help it. What's our next play, Matt? You've got a whole lot better head than I have for planning a thing like this."
Before Matt could answer, there came a rap at the front door. Susie gave a startled jump.
"Do you think that's—that's Hawley?" she whispered.
"Hawley's done at this end of the line," said Matt. "If I'm any prophet, he'll pull off the rest of his work in the hills."
Chub was already on his way to the front door, and Susie and Matt followed him from the kitchen. When Chub pulled the door open, all were surprised. Tom Clipperton, a quarter-blood Indian, a school friend of Matt's and Chub's, was standing in the doorway. Beside Clipperton was a disreputable little Mexican with gold rings in his ears.
"Howdy, Clip!" called Chub. "Come in, and bring your friend. You'll excuse me if I duck. Important business, you know."
"Wait," answered Clipperton, in his quick, disjointed fashion. "This man's a wood-hauler. Hear what he's got to say. It's got a lot to do with you."
"What's his name, Clip?" asked Matt, pressing forward.
"Pedro Morales. I've known him for a long time. Helped him out of a bad scrape, once. He's never forgot it."