But it seemed that it was always the unexpected that was happening on this eventful day. There was the roar of a motor below in the field. Bill unconsciously made himself an attractive target as he sat up and looked at Saxton sharply.
“Holy sufferin’ Moses!” he said. “That must be my ship. Maybe the third stick-up guy, or—”
He raced down straight toward the field, Saxton on his heels. As they passed the machine gun and its dead gunner they were just in time to see Barlow’s machine take to the air. At the joy-stick was Pedro Cesar.
Bill stopped and sent a rifle bullet at the plane, but the ship sailed calmly through the air, and Cesar playfully tossed a grenade over the side. It exploded a few yards away from the bewildered men on the ground.
“I’ll bet ten to one he’s loaded the loot from that sky-blue one,” shouted Bill.
He streaked over to the sagging monoplane, and found that his prediction was only too true. Pedro had also taken the box of grenades.
“My fault!” Saxton admitted. “What a dumb-bell! I should have stayed and watched him. Now the little rat’s got away with everything.”
Saxton’s crestfallen penitence touched Bill rather humorously, despite the circumstances.
“I guess it’s Pedro Cesar’s,” answered Saxton. “Cesar’s gold, Cesar’s plane, and Cesar’s bank, for all I care. But believe me, if I could get my hands on that little greaser it would be a case of ‘I’ve come to bury Cesar,’ believe you me! What’s the matter, Bill? Something else wrong?”
Bill Barlow was looking at the sky-blue monoplane as if it was bewitched, and as if he himself was bewitched along with it.