“Yes, three cars back,—next to the sleepers. Shall we chuck 'em overboard as soon as we get out of Oakland?”
“Not unless we are attacked,” I returned. “Just sit down by the rear door and give the signal if they come this way. There'll be no trouble if they are only two.”
My precautions were not called to a test, and we reached Livermore at near eleven o'clock, without further incident than a report from Abrams that the spies of the enemy got off the train at every station and watched for our landing. Yet when we stood on the platform of the bare little station at Livermore and saw the yellow cars crawling away on their eastward journey, we looked in vain for the men who had tracked us.
“Fooled, by thunder!” said Fitzhugh with a laugh in which the others joined. “They're off for Sacramento.”
“They'll have to earn their money to find us there,” said Abrams.
The gray day had become grayer, and the wind blew fresh in our faces with the smell of rain heavy upon it, as we sought the hotel. It was a bare country place, yet trees grew by the hotel and there were vines climbing about its side, and it looked as though we might be comfortable for a day, should we have to stay there so long.
“Plenty of room,” said the landlord rubbing his hands.
“Are there any letters here for Henry Wilton?” I inquired, bethinking me that orders might have been sent me already.
“No, sir.”
“Nor telegrams?”