“He got away!” Phil murmured. “As soon as he gets on the other side the hill he’ll put his skis back on and keep right on toward town. He ought to be there in twenty minutes. What do you really think they’ll do to us?”
Max shook his head and glanced solemnly at the three desperadoes.
“I don’t know,” he said, in an undertone, “if this isn’t a swell outcome to a skiing party...!”
Reaching the outskirts of Centerville, Bill Stewart pushed forward toward the County Jail where police and sheriff offices were located. Arrived at the Jail, breathless and near exhaustion, he gasped out his story to an astounded sheriff.
“Wire service has just been resumed,” the sheriff informed. “Our first report was word from Boulder, fifty miles above, that just before the storm Friday, three men robbed the State Bank there....”
“Did anyone get the license number of the car?” asked Bill.
“Yes,” said the sheriff, “it’s....”
“M-617-503,” supplied Bill, from memory.