“By a friend of yours, I reckon,” Jim drawled.
“Friend, hey—” The man whirled on the members of his gang.
“Turn that gat, you fool—”
“Who took it?” the little man thundered.
“Gordon, fellow named Arthur Gordon,” answered Bob.
“Gordon, who the blazes is Gordon?” demanded one of the gang.
“I know him,” the tall man answered.
“So do I, blast his hide. When did he steal it?”
“Day before yesterday. We were coming north; he passed over us in a big plane, dropped on the wings and drove us off the course. We landed up in the snow, had a fall, and he robbed us—”
“Yeh. Say, tell that to the marines. Gordon wasn’t risking his neck by dropping on you out of another plane,” the tall man objected.