There, before him, he saw an upside-down and badly smashed automobile. Treve was mounting guard alongside. From an opening in the inverted front section of the car, as Joel crashed through the chaparral toward the wreck, appeared a blood-splotched and distorted face.
At sight of the face, Treve charged. The head was withdrawn, and a doubled seat-cushion was thrust hurriedly into its place. But not before Fenno had recognized the ample features of Fraser Colt.
The old man stood, blinking down at the upset car. Then his gaze fell upon a badly torn canvas bag, lying nearby; a bag whose few remaining bindings of rope showed sure signs of having been gnawed asunder by teeth. Joel whistled, long and low.
“I c’n understand how he cotched you, all right, Mister Colt,” said he, addressing the invisible occupant of the car. “Trevy c’n do ’most anything, when he reely puts his mind to it. But how you ever managed to ketch him is beyond me. He—”
“Grab your dog and help me out of here!” bleated Colt, feebly, his nerve gone. “I’ll—I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Why should I butt in to help a dirty dog-stealer?” snarled Joel. “Tell me that, Mister. Why—?”
“I didn’t steal him!” wailed Colt. “He’s mine. He— Say, here’s his bill of sale to prove it, friend!”
Cautiously, he shoved forth through a cranny in the cushions a crumpled paper. Joel picked it up and read it, at the same time mechanically ordering Treve back from an abortive charge at the disappearing fingers.
“H’m!” grunted Joel, after a long pause for thought. “The dog seems to b’long to you, all right. Selling him?”
“No!” whined Colt, in a last flare of spirit.