Tom seized one of the sleeves, Larry Burnham and Dick gripping the other. Then, easing himself over the window sill, the tall lad was lowered steadily toward the grass-bestrewn ground. It was such an easy operation that he laughed in derision at Hank Styles’ effort to hold them prisoners.
The instant his feet touched the ground Tom dashed off at top speed. A glad cry of relief presently escaped his lips—the horses were contentedly munching the grass in front of the house. A quick count, however, showed one to be missing.
“Ah! No wonder Bob didn’t answer,” he exclaimed. An idea of the true state of affairs flashed into his mind. “Hooray! I’ll just bet he’s up to some detective work.”
Running back he yelled: “There doesn’t seem to be a soul about the old place, fellows, and I guess Bob is on their trail.”
Dick Travers was soon standing beside him; then came the young Cree. And presently all were on solid earth once more.
“I think the view looks much finer from here than it does up above,” laughed Tom, joyously.
“Hank Styles much bad man!” exclaimed Thunderbolt, with emphasis. “If him ever come over to Cree village again he run away mighty fast. Me see him there many times.”
“Half the fun of getting out is spoiled by Bob’s not being here,” growled Dick. “I guess Tom’s theory is correct. Let’s go inside.”
He led the way to the front door.
It proved to be locked.