“Gone, by thunder!” he ejaculated as the machine came to a stop before the little depot.
“You’re right,” agreed his fellow passenger.
The large man leaned from the tonneau and aimed a thick white finger at a passing villager, as if he were a living advertisement for the automatic pistol which is aimed as easily as leveling the index digit.
“You!” he bawled. “C’m’ ’ere!”
The long, lanky desert rat jumped as if the street had grown suddenly hot under his big feet, and promptly obeyed the authoritative command.
“Has the Demarest, Spruce & Tillou outfit started over the desert in this infernal storm?” the commanding person demanded.
“Ye-yes, sir. That is—er—they went before the storm. They’re likely out there somewheres in ’er now.”
“Oh! They couldn’t have reached their camp site before the cursed thing slipped up on ’em, then?”
“No, sir. They started day before yistiddy. The storm, she broke last night. They couldn’t ’a’ made seventy mile before she come.”
“Thunderation! Didn’t any o’ you natives here have sense enough to know it was comin’ and warn ’em?”