“I will,” Dick laughed, turning toward the door.
Buckhart yawned openly as his friend appeared beside the car.
“Say, pard,” he drawled, “why didn’t you stay a couple of minutes longer and clean up the hour. I reckoned you were plumb lost and was just thinking of organizing a searching party of one to locate you.”
Cranking the engine, Dick squeezed past the Texan and took his seat at the wheel.
“I couldn’t break away from the old party who was telling me about our friend Randolph,” he explained. “He seems to be something of a mystery to the people around here. In fact, it is quite doubtful whether we shall be let into his place, once we’ve found it.”
“Say you so?” Brad inquired interestedly. “Let’s hear about it.”
Threading his way through the streets, Merriwell narrated for Buckhart’s benefit the curious story, or rather fragment of a story, he had just heard from Captain Winters; and by the time they reached the outskirts of the city and wheeled into Bonnet Trail, the Westerner had all the particulars and was as much interested as his chum.
“Looks like there was something queer about this gent, pard,” he remarked. “My curiosity has sure riz up on its hind legs.”
The road was extremely bad, being full of ruts and bumps and apparently not much traveled, so that it took them a good two hours to reach Duncan, where Dick drew up in front of the one store the small place boasted. A tall, lank individual in shirt sleeves and cowhide boots lounged in the doorway, chewing a straw.
“Are you Mr. Pettigrew?” Dick asked, stopping the engine.