“I was there good and plenty for six months.”
“Ever hear of a man named Rockwell—Silas Rockwell?”
Jimmie gave a startled jump. “Wow!” he yelled.
“Know Rockwell?” continued Clancy.
“He’s my Uncle Si, but he never had no use for any the rest of the fambly. Sort of an even thing, Red, ’cause none of the rest of the fambly ever had much use for him. He runs the Red Star Garage, on First Avenue, and he was never knowed to pay a cent if he could dodge or run away. If he owes your folks money, then you better forget it. You can get blood out of a turnip quicker’n you can get cold cash out of Uncle Si. My people knows him by the lovin’ name of ‘Old Rocks,’ and——”
Fortune’s voice trailed off into silence. He and Clancy were standing on the slope of the mountain, near the place where the trail left the uplift and straightened out across the flat desert. Fortune’s eyes were fixed on something at the foot of the descent—something which seemed to hold him spellbound.
Clancy, his wonder aroused by his companion’s behavior, dropped his gaze to the foot of the slope. What he saw there surprised him.
The big automobile, which had so recklessly swept past him and Fortune on the heights, was at a halt at the edge of the brown, dusty plain. A smaller car, facing the other way, was drawn up beside the six-cylinder machine.
Two men had got out of the small car. One of them was stoutly built, well dressed, and of middle age. This man’s panama hat was pushed back on his head and he seemed to be violently agitated. The driver of the large machine was on the ground, and to him the stout gentleman was addressing himself. The other man hovered around in the background.
This third member of the party at the foot of the slope was tall and thin, and wore a linen duster, a cap, and had a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead.