He reached the road, turned into it, and followed it, musing. He recalled that his mother had written him that Dot was working on a novel about Billy Gee. As he let his mind dwell on the thought, he felt the blood warm in his veins. His heart beat faster. Yes, sir, he decided, Dot must surely get an education—for was not an education necessary to write books? He was pretty certain it was, considering it was a painful piece of work for him to write so common a thing as a letter. And there must be a girl in that novel. Who was she? Did Billy Gee come wounded to the ranch, and was he cared for by the girl friend of his mother? There was the arrival of that persistent sheriff, Bob Warburton. And did the wonderful girl hide the wounded bandit in her room?
From speculating thus, he presently became possessed with the desire to see Dot. He wanted to hear her voice again, those musical tones of hers that he had never forgotten. His being craved for the pity she poured out to him, her splendid sympathy for him, her understanding of him. Besides, he knew he could give her so many interesting sidelights into Billy Gee’s career, that he was sure she could use to advantage in her novel. For instance, how he had risked two trips to San Francisco to inquire after her; how he had called on his mother one night, while Dot was asleep, and confessed his love for the girl; how he had met his boyhood chum, Lex Sangerly, on the branch-road line of survey a few days ago, and conversed with him for half an hour without being recognized; how he was keeping his promise—going the straight and narrow for her sake.
The staccato sound of an open muffler in the distance back of him, interrupted his trend of thought. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the twin lights of an automobile coming from the direction of the Huntington ranch. He was not certain whose car it was. Sangerly, he knew, had driven toward Mirage at sundown, for he had been watching from afar and had seen him go. He believed that the oncoming car was the one which had stopped at the ranch while he was making his escape. Doubtless Warburton, by some means or another, had discovered the way he went and was seeking——No, that couldn’t be it. More than likely, it was Warburton hurrying to camp to organize a posse. That would be the average sheriff’s method of working; never single-handed—always twenty to one, playing safe.
He looked ahead. He had reached the mouth of Geerusalem Gulch. A mile or so away, a few scattered lights twinkled, indicating the outskirts of the settlement. The old rock shack, where he had rescued Lennox from the Quintell gunmen, lay within pistol-shot distance. It was a little too far off to make it unobserved, for it just might be that the powerful headlights of the approaching machine would reveal him. He could not afford to take a chance.
Spurring out of the road, he steered for a thick patch of brush near by. He brought his horse to a halt behind it, swung from the saddle, and waited, screened by the heavy foliage. The machine came dashing up the road. As it got abreast of the hiding place, it slowed down, and the headlights were switched off.
Mystified, Billy Gee crouched low to the ground, watching the blue-black sky line, and gripped his revolver. Presently he heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. He saw the shadowlike figure of a man pass stealthily over the wash and vanish into the gloom.
“That you, Mr. Quintell?” suddenly came the low voice of another man, some distance away.
A curse broke from the newcomer. “You damn boob! Are you trying to advertise this thing? Come over here!”
A short pause followed, broken only by the sound of footsteps blundering over the rocky wash.
Quintell spoke again: “Is it all right? Did you do exactly as I said—the width of two claims?”