‘THEY’RE Barrett’s men!’ I said, pushing Paula back into the tunnel. They can’t have seen you. I’m going out there to draw them off. The moment you think they’re out of the way, make a dash for it. Grab one of their trucks if you can. Get to a telephone and call Mifflin. Bring him out here in a hurry. Okay?’
In an emergency, Paula never argued. She squeezed my arm, nodded to show she understood, and I left her, running out into the sunlight again.
Below me, the men were coming up the zigzag path. They were moving as fast as they could, but the angle of climb was steep, and they hadn’t made much progress. They yelled at me, as I looked hastily above me, getting the line of country.
The path continued past the opening of the tunnel and led a few yards farther on, to the top of the quarry. I ran up the path, now in full sight.
I reached the head of the quarry. Before me stretched sand dunes, scrub and rising ground of the desert which lies at the back of Monte Verde Mine. To my left lay the San Diego Highway: my way of escape, but Paula’s way of escape too. If I went that way, she would come up behind the pursuing men. I had to draw them away from her. If I was to help her, I had to go to the right: into the heart of the vast track of sand and waste-ground which afforded plenty of cover.
I ran easily over the loose sand, zigzagging a little to keep the various bushes between me and the men behind.
After I had covered a couple of hundred yards or so, I paused to look back over my shoulder. They hadn’t reached the top of the quarry yet, and for a moment I wondered if they had found Paula. But I could hear them shouting, and judged they’d appear in a minute or so. I ducked behind a thick bush and waited.
Almost immediately the first head appeared above the edge of the quarry. Then four men appeared. They stopped and looked to right and left. Three other men joined them.
They were big, tough-looking birds: four of them in red-and-white striped sweat shirts, the kind worn by the fishermen who lounge along the waterfront of Coral Gables. The other three were city characters, in ill-fitting sports clothes, typical street-corner loafers.
One of them, a short, square-shouldered man, seemed to be in charge. He was giving directions. Four of the fishermen ran off to the left. The remaining men spread out in a halfcircle and began to move towards me.