“Not thieves! After thieves!” came the sharp reply.
“Are you officers?” demanded Clay.
“Officers! American officers!” was the unexpected reply.
“They’re faking!” Case cut in. “You saw how they tried to steal the Rambler! I’ve a notion to take a shot at them.”
Clay swung the Rambler in a circle and came close to the rowboat, an automatic ready for use. Case looked on with disapproval showing in his face.
“Now, what do you want?” Clay demanded, as one of the men arose in the boat. “I’m not running away from officers, if I know it, nor am I holding any extended talks with boat thieves. What do you want?”
“I want to come aboard,” was the stern reply.
The man who spoke was tall, slender, black of hair and eyes, and with a grace and freedom of movement which told of life in the open air. Clay rather liked his looks, and so consented for him to board the Rambler. Case stood by with a revolver to see that no rush was made as the other vaulted easily over the railing after scrambling lightly up the side of the motor boat. But there was no need of this, for the others sat stolidly at the oars, even backing off as the prow bumped the Rambler’s side.
The man who had boarded the Rambler stood for a moment with his hands outstretched, to show that his intentions were not hostile, and then gave a keen look about. It seemed to the boys that he took in every minute detail of the craft, from the bristling dog at the prow to the electric coil at the back of the cabin.
“I’m Joe King,” he finally said. “Joe King, of Arizona. Phoenix, Arizona, to be exact. I’m a deputy sheriff. Where’s the sawed-off kid who came aboard your boat just after dark last night?”