“We’d better hurry back,” he said, “and send someone after the Greaser. He’s dangerous.” And without further words the two set forth.
Under the moon the town lay quiet, only a lighted window here and there to tell that it was inhabited. Around the machinery and on the dam itself tiny shadows moved to show that the watchmen were not sleeping. Just before they reached the Quarter-house, a horse and rider galloped up the hill. Bob recognized Jenkins and stopped him.
“They dusted ’fore I got there,” was the disgusted answer. “I trailed ’em down stream but I reckon they’ve hit the border by now.”
“Sorry,” sympathized Bob, “but I guess they found I’d got out and that scared ’em.”
“I reckon so, ’cause they had too good a start for me to catch up with ’em. Good night to ye,” he finished and galloped off to put his tired horse away and get some much-needed rest for himself.
“Too bad,” grunted the Indian as they walked on. “But you no tell him ’bout Miguel. Why not?”
“I think I’d better report to Big Boss first. Perhaps he will have some other plan.”
“Boss Whitney not here,” stated the Indian. “Boss Taylor good man but not like Chief. You wait for him. Now I go send one, two my young men trail Miguel. Perhaps they catch him—Jenkins, he never catch him. He tired. Not much good trail nohow.”
This sounded like good advice to Bob.