“All right,” snapped Dorales. “Is he much ahead of me?”
“Two hours, in a flivver. You can’t fail to land him this time. Good luck, boy!”
Dorales snarled farewell, and swung off in the darkness. Mackintavers turned to his friend, James Z. Premble.
“I’m gettin’ old,” he complained. “Been out chasin’ a thief all day and I’m no good for an all-night ride now. I’ll take a room at the hotel. Drop in after a spell and we’ll arrange the details. You got the stuff?”
“Every blessed paper and letter. Everything O.K.,” asserted Premble.
The two men melted into the night.
Five minutes later Dorales was filling his gasoline tank at the garage. He made brief inquiries about Murray’s flivver and the brand of tires thereon. Off to one side, a swarthy man was hastily working upon the fan belt of a big car, which had twice broken as his engine started; this swarthy man took keen and unobserved interest in the questions of Dorales. The name of this swarthy man was Thomas Twofork, and he was an Indian of the Cochiti pueblo. Twenty minutes after Dorales had departed Thomas Twofork had finished his repairs and headed his car out upon the westward road to St. Johns.
An hour afterward, well into the night, an automobile came into Magdalena from the opposite direction. It came in by the eastern road, the road that comes up from Socorro through Blue Cañon, the road that comes south to Socorro from Albuquerque and Santa Fé. This automobile did not turn into a garage; instead, it passed on through the business section of the town and did not slacken speed until it reached the Mexican or western quarter.
There it came to a halt and its horn squawked four times. Its searchlight revealed a small adobe house with blue-painted doors. One of these doors opened to show a man clad in dishevelled night attire. The automobile drove on into the yard; its lights flickered out.
“Is that you, Juan Baca?” queried a soft, gentle voice. “Ah, yes; it is I, Coravel Tio. Will you give me lodging for the night?”