“We checked your information last night, Mr. Walz. I’m afraid you obtained it from unreliable sources.”
A flush slowly overspread the motel owner’s face.
“Craig Warner isn’t dead?” he stammered.
“No. He is operating a ranch less than forty miles from here.”
“A place called Cloud Crest,” supplied Jack, enjoying Walz’ discomfiture.
“I—I’m mighty glad to hear it,” the motel owner muttered.
“We’ve made further inquiry,” Mr. Livingston resumed. “Cloud Crest is off the main road in a rather inaccessible place. In dry weather, however, it can be reached by car. Fortunately, yesterday’s downpour missed this area.”
“Warner hasn’t been to town in a month,” Ken added. “That’s why he never replied to our telegram. It’s waiting here, if he ever shows up.”
Walz sat for a long moment, staring at the tablecloth. The waitress brought pancakes and hot sausages, but he scarcely touched his food. The Scouts, on the other hand, ate heartily.
When they had finished, Walz said, “You’ll be starting on East now, I suppose?”