“There was a note calling for twenty thousand dollars ransom nailed to the door,” said the Saint, and the sheriff took down his gun belt.
“I’ll be right along.”
Simon went with him. The news spread like an epidemic, and a dozen men had gathered in the back room when they arrived.
Intuccio told the story. He seemed to have shaken off some of his first numbness, and at intervals his eyes veered towards Urselli with an ugly soberness. When he had finished, the sheriff’s gaze leveled in the same direction.
“So,” he said slowly, “while Urselli knew that you’d be gone at least three hours, there wasn’t anybody to see what he was up to.”
“What of it?” protested Urselli grittily. “You got no—”
Simon interposed himself.
“We’re wasting time,” he said coolly. “I guess we ought to make a search.”
“Mebbe we will.” The sheriff’s gaze did not shift. “You’ll come as well, Urselli — and stay with me.”
The group of men filed out quickly, splitting up outside into two and threes, for there were less than five hours of daylight left — an almost hopeless time in which to find and follow a cold trail in that wild country. Simon joined them.