“When do you figger you’ll be out to the ranch, Mr. Sangerly?”
“This afternoon, some time. Be assured we’ll not abuse your hospitality, and I hope to see you again on your return. By the way,” he added, as an afterthought, “I understand you have a daughter. Did she see Billy Gee, or have any idea of his presence before his capture? I mean, had she noticed anything that would have led her to suspect the presence of a stranger in the neighborhood?”
“No, sir,” said Lemuel, with a positive shake of his head. “She was surprised when I told her. I had to show her the check I got, ’fore she would believe me. I think you got it sized up about right; this Billy Gee party jest watched his chanct, reckonin’ on a clean get-away. He turned his hoss out along with mine to throw off sespicion, an’ buried his swag where he could come an’ git it unbeknown to anybody.” He laughed. “You don’t know my Dot, Mr. Sangerly. If ever there was a real honest-to-goodness little lady, she’s it—even if I do have to say it. I want you to meet her when we git back.”
CHAPTER VII—STARTLING PREDICAMENTS
That talk with the son of the Western manager of the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad did not set well on Lemuel’s mind. Even the fact that the Geerusalem Searchlight’s bulletin board, with chalky eloquence, fairly bristling with superlatives, made bold to proclaim him “California’s Bat Masterson,” carried little if any thrill for him. Sangerly’s words sounded like trouble in disguise. Sangerly’s keen deduction of what had happened to the paymaster’s money seemed alarmingly correct. It seemed more, for on the heels of its apparent certitude, came the distressing suspicion that Dot, having assisted Billy Gee during his whole period at the ranch, must know something about the disappearance of his saddlebags. Sangerly was right. No man in the bandit’s condition would have lost precious moments trying to hide his stealings, particularly in a trackless, changeable sand waste such as lay to the south. It would have been the height of folly, a useless piece of work, for he never could have found his cache again. There was not the slightest doubt but that that twenty thousand dollars was on the Huntington Ranch.
So thought Lemuel, and then he recalled that Sangerly had mentioned the presence of two railroad detectives who were to aid him in the search. What if they should dig up evidence involving Dot? Sheriff Warburton had not so much as hinted about her having harbored the bandit, from what Sangerly had said; yet Warburton must surely have suspected it. Bob Warburton certainly was a good friend.
The longer Lemuel reviewed the situation, the more he became convinced that he must get Dot out of the country before these detectives began their investigations. He shuddered at the fearful disgrace were her name mentioned, even in the remotest way, with the whole ugly affair. He would pack her out of Soapweed Plains immediately. Later on he would question her. He was fully convinced that she would give him all the details on the subject without hesitation when he asked her.
He had still a few minutes left before the time he must report back to the stage office. These he devoted to hiring a man who would look after the ranch during their absence. Afterward, he sought the quiet and seclusion of a back street and wandered aimlessly about, his mind busy with this new disturbing angle that threatened to sully the clean name of Huntington. So preoccupied was he, that he entirely overlooked his intention of paying Mrs. Liggs a visit to inquire the reason for her cold treatment of him shortly before.
He found the rented machine ready and waiting for him. Clambering in beside the driver, he was soon whirling out of camp toward home. A strange sense of security came to him. Sangerly and his sleuths were left behind, and it would be only a matter of a few short hours ere he and Dot would be lost in the confusion and bustle of traveling thousands. The proverbial needle in the haystack would be as easy to find as they, he told himself.
When within a mile of the ranch he chanced to glance in the direction of the low line of chromatic hills across which his acreage extended. A man was trudging along through the greasewood brush, steering diagonally for the road. He was less than a quarter of a mile off, and Lemuel squinted at him curiously.