“An armored car!” Could there be any connection? Saxton had told him that afternoon that he wished him to remain in Pampa in order to meet his son, who was coming down with the bullion shipment from Trinidad in an armored car.
Bill Barlow waited until there was no sound from the cabin, if that was what it was, then leaped the fence and crept toward the airplane. No watchman had been left on guard, and Bill believed the mysterious aviators might return at any moment.
On the far side of the plane he risked a flash from his torch, and then snapped it off quickly.
The ship was a De Haviland painted green. In front of the pilot’s seat was mounted a machine gun. Bill thought he recognized the type and that it was synchronized to shoot between the blades of the propeller.
At any rate, it was a weird sight on an airplane in peace time in a New Mexico meadow.
He did not risk another flash, but scurried away in the darkness, and somehow found his way to his tethered horse. When he finally reached the Saxton home it was almost dawn, and he rapped on the window that he knew to be Saxton’s.
In a couple of minutes the banker, pyjama-clad, stuck his head out.
“What the devil’s up?” he asked, sleepily. “Where were you, Bill?”
“I’ll tell you all that later,” Bill replied. “Meanwhile, I’ll ask you one. What time is your son starting from Trinidad in that armored car?”
“Who? Ted? Why, he may have started by this time. First streak of daylight they’ll shove off. Roads’ll be clearer then, and what folks don’t see won’t bother ’em.” Saxton kindled a cigar, and gave vent to his rumbling laugh. “Why? You’re not worrying about that, are you? That type of armored car could stand off an army, boy.”