IV
Beneath the cottonwoods in front of the sanatorium at Valmora, Frank C. Saxton and his daughter waited nervously. An hour elapsed. Two hours.
Saxton was shaking his head. There was concern in the gray eyes of Ruth. Three hours. And a half.
The sun was setting behind the ridge to the west when Ruth sprang to her feet, her gray eyes alight.
“I hear it!” she yelled. “Oh, daddy! Daddy! It must be—be Billy!”
Out of the sky to the south skimmed a sky-blue monoplane. It roared overhead; then the plane, with a throttled motor, came into the wind and made a quick bank to the right, and a few seconds later was bouncing gently along the broad exercise field of the sanatorium.
As it taxied to a stop, out jumped William C. Barlow. He hailed his friends and pointed to the cockpit.
“The bullion!” he announced proudly. “Better leave it here and set a guard till morning. We’ll take it to Pampa in time to open the bank.”
Saxton put up the back of his hand and wiped his forehead.
“I’m getting to believe whatever you say, Bill Barlow,” he announced. “If you say it, it must be so. But where’s the other plane—my plane?”