“I don’t think so,” muttered Hard. “I think they’ll stick to a good road.” But Scott had spurred his horse. Hard followed him a moment in silence, then he called: “Scott, I hear a machine! By Jove, I see it—it’s coming toward us, down the main road.”
Scott pulled up his horse. They peered into the dusk ahead of them. The car was coming toward them.
“You brought a gun, I suppose?” he asked.
Hard nodded. “What do we do?”
“Hold ’em up.” They pulled their horses down to a walk. “No headlights,” observed Scott. “We’ll keep this side of that little rise. If they haven’t seen us, they won’t see us till they’re on us.”
“We don’t shoot, I trust, until we know who they are,” suggested Hard, mildly. “It strikes me they’re going the wrong way for our men.”
“They may be going to turn at the fork. If it’s not them, it’s someone who can tell us if the Mexicans have gone this way.”
The car, a small one, pulled up the hill and started down toward Chula Vista. Scott rode into the middle of the road.
“Stop!” he called, authoritatively. The car stopped. It was driven by a fat man who was its only occupant.
“What’s the matter with you fools?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t you know this here’s the sheriff’s car?”