He did not have to wait long. A Mexican does not fight at a disadvantage. He watched with considerable glee the wriggling, frightened forms working their way out of gunshot. When they were out of danger they stood up on their feet and disappeared toward the ranch house.
Billy straightened and took a good look. If his simple plan was working it ought to be coming to fruition. Sure enough he made out a dot approaching in the distance, a fast-moving dot that could be nothing other than a machine. The car came straight to the gate that Billy had entered the previous afternoon and drew up at the pump house. Billy climbed down from the stack. A man stepped from the automobile.
“Mr. Magee.”
“That’s me,” said Billy.
“My name is Arthur Ross. Mr. Mobray met me in town last night; he said to tell you that Jones gave him your letter. He just happened to meet him. He insisted that I come here without delay. He will come just as soon as he follows your instructions.”
“Did he tell you what I wanted you for?”
“No.”
The young man was dressed in corduroys and a slouch hat; he had a family resemblance to the girl Billy had found on his homestead.
“Come into the pump house.”
The stranger read the words that Billy had tacked on the wall. His jaw dropped suddenly.