When the sheep-herder's shack loomed across their path, Slade commanded a halt. Then he gave orders to surround the building. As the men drew near the cabin the door opened suddenly and a man stepped out. Before he could close the door, Slade and Hawkins were upon him. Gregory and Billings darted for the open doorway as the light disappeared from within. From the fog-shrouded cabin came the sound of muffled blows, the quick breathing of men, the rasp of feet upon the creaking floor. A choking cry died away into silence. Silence broken after a moment by a sharp click. Then another. Slade relighted the lamp and turned to examine the two white-faced men who lay handcuffed on the floor.
"Look like 'snowbirds,'" he said. "The two of them haven't the strength of one healthy cat."
Passing the men over to Billings with instructions to search them, he walked to the radio switch-board and examined it carefully.
"They've got a regular set just the same," he said half-admiringly. "They could reach Encinitas with this one all right."
Seating himself on a stool by the board he placed his hand on the key.
"I'm going to try to get the Bennington," he said.
Billings nodded. "She ought to be close along shore by now," he answered. "If they left when they said they would."
While the search went on the radio spluttered spasmodically. Finding nothing of value on the persons of his captives, Billings bared the arms of the two men and scrutinized the flesh intently in the yellow lamplight.
"Snowbirds," he announced. "One of them's punctured up one side and down the other. Other's not so bad. Good business I'd say for them to get hold of a couple of fellows like these. They're about the only ones they could get to stick in a God-forsaken hole like this and keep their mouths shut."