“Wooley’s on the trail,” he answered. “That’s enough. How about a game of pinochle, gentlemen?”
That was the apparent interest Mr. Cook had in his five-thousand-dollar loss. But, two hours later, when Weston and Marshal Wooley had retired from the card game and Mr. Cook and Roy had repaired to the front gallery or porch where the manager lit a fresh cigar, he said:
“I’m thinkin’ o’ putting your airship to a test. Will it carry two?”
“Certainly,” exclaimed Roy, with enthusiasm. “What is it?”
“Well,” said Mr. Cook, leaning back in a big rustic chair, “I don’t like to get excited over five thousand dollars. But I don’t enjoy having a man of Mike Hassell’s kind put the joke on me. And there don’t seem much doubt but what he’s done it—so far.”
“Don’t you think the marshal’ll get him?” asked Roy.
Mr. Cook laughed.
“Hassell ain’t a westerner. I know him. He’s what you call a ‘bank sneak.’ He’s an eastern criminal. I’ve had him spotted ever since he came here. Wooley’s chase would be all right for a stage robber who rides a pony to death and then steals another. But Hassell ain’t agoin’ to do that. Couldn’t do it if he wanted to. He’d give out before the horse would. He’ll hide just like a city thief.”
“Hide?” repeated Roy. “Out in the desert?”