“Send in the clerk, and give orders that the American plane is to be carefully watched—strictly. No one, other than the guard, to go near it, except the flyers, of course.”
“Very well, sir.” The man touched his cap again, wheeled and went out briskly. The officer turned again to his guests.
“Did you mention a ranch, the K-A?”
“That’s ours,” Bob said quickly. “The K-A and the Cross-Bar; they’re great ranches.”
“I do not doubt it. I have a friend, an old school pal who is one of the Royal Mounted Police Chiefs stationed in Quebec. A few weeks ago I received a letter from him and he told me that he had been in Texas on some official business. As I recall it, he said he stayed at the K-A, and he mentioned some rather wild experiences at another place—”
“The Box-Z,” Jim laughed.
“That’s it. Chap’s name is Allen Ruhel.”
“He stopped with us. We met him first in the Province of Quebec, and another chap, named Bradshaw. We had some great times in Canada, near the line, and we told them if they came to Texas we’d pin horseshoes on them, but they didn’t stay long enough,” Bob announced.
“By George, then you are the Flying Buddies he spoke of. Said most disrespectfully that a couple of “American kids” had done a lot to locate the hangout of a border gang. He’s particularly grateful to you because it proved to his department that planes can be of the greatest assistance in the work to be done, and he’s getting some extra ones in his service,” Seaman smiled. “You did him quite a good turn.”
“Howling Nightingales, they did us a few,” Bob declared.