“Get!” he ripped out tersely, his eyes gleaming. “Beat it! Vamoose! If you’re not out of sight in three minutes I’ll drill you full of holes.”
The tallest of the four—the one who had done the filing—seemed inclined to disregard the warning, but one of his companions plucked him by the arm and whispered a few words into his ear.
“Skip!” repeated the slim man. “I mean what I say. The next time I catch you around here I’ll shoot first and you can explain afterward—if you’re able.”
Without further delay, the men turned and hurried toward the trail. The unknown watched them until they were out of sight, and then he wheeled quickly around.
“I seem to have an unexpected influx of callers to-day,” he remarked. “Might I ask your business?”
His tone was cool and self-possessed, but he shoved the revolver back into his pocket as he spoke.
“You are Mr. Randolph,” Dick inquired—“Mr. Scott Randolph?”
The stranger nodded and his eyes narrowed.
“I am,” he said tersely. “And you?”
The Yale man took a card from his pocket and handed it to the other.