Bill drained his second cup of coffee and met Dorothy’s look.
“Got any ideas?” he asked her.
She shook her head and pushed her chair back from the table. “No, I haven’t,” she confessed gravely. “But if I’m any judge of bad character, Mr. John J. Joyce will keep his promise. Too bad we slept so long.”
“Maybe,” said Bill. “But without that good rest, we’d have been dead ones today. The tough part of it is that Joyce’s men will be posted at all the reservation entrances now—”
“And on the trails around this shelter.”
“Very likely. If we could ditch those guys and hike over to a road, we might get a lift out in somebody’s car. Lots of people drive in here on Sundays.”
“Not in weather like this, Bill. No, even if we did persuade someone to give us a lift, we’d be soon seen and stopped.”
Bill suddenly brought his fist down upon the table.
“We’re a pair of idiots,” he declared. “Joyce’s men won’t stop us. They’ll be looking for Stoker Conway and a girl. Keep those clothes on you’re wearing, and with my old hat, all they’ll see is a couple of fellows on a tramp. Nobody’d take me for George Conway. Why, we’ve got nothing to worry about!”
“That’s where I differ with you. We most certainly have plenty to worry us.”