Coates’ withering eyes rested on the other. “He beats it with the swag, you notice that, too, don’t you? And you’ve stuck inside here, like a big walrus, and let him. What the hell kind of a free-lunch detective——”
“Say, soft-pedal that stuff, pal!” flared Tyler menacingly. “I don’t see you busting no records—except it’s slipping the bull. If you think I’m tearing out after this wild and woolly yegg, so’s he can pot-shot me first flop out of the box, you’re cuckoo. Maybe I ought’ve taken the lamp and looked under the rosebushes for him, eh?”
Coates made no reply. Raging silently he paced the floor. Some seconds afterward he halted before Tyler.
“This is certainly some swell mess. That’s all I got to say. I phoned the chief, got his O. K., talked my head off to get the papers signed, and rented a machine for the trip. For what? We’ve put in two weeks in this hole for nothing. The money’s gone. Get me? Gone! We might as well sling onto our grips and report back to headquarters for a damn fine panning. Hot dog!”
Tyler laughed. “Rave on! To hear you say it I’m the whole show, ain’t I? I’m supposed to pull a fancy moving-picture stunt, while you stand on the side lines rooting for me. Pretty soft! Sure, I get you! You’re trying to slip out from under—make me the goat. Say, bo, any time you think——”
“Aw, cut it out! Let’s get out after this wise bird, see if we can’t pick up his tracks. I got the car outside. If we don’t get a line on him, we’ll shoot to camp and phone the old man,” cut in Coates surlily. He turned to Lemuel, standing near the stove, rubbing his bony hands in hopeless apprehension. “Mr. Huntington, we’re letting you go on probation. But don’t leave the country till we tell you, d’you understand? Take care of our traps for a few days. If we don’t come back we’ll send for them. Come on, Tyler, we’ll——”
He broke off abruptly, interrupted by the furious honking of the horn of the machine waiting out on the road, the thunderous roar of its open muffler.
With Tyler at his heels he dashed for the front door. Clearing the porch in one bound they sped down the garden walk, gripping their revolvers, straining their eyes toward the car, looming black against the sky horizon of the plains.
“I’m cutting for the field. Watch your shots!” panted Coates in low tones, swinging off on a tangent through the garden.
But he had barely cleared the walk when the automobile suddenly leaped away; and simultaneously its headlights flashed on, boring twin avenues of white flame through the darkness in the direction of distant Mirage. Alongside the driver, the silhouette of a man was now visible. He megaphoned back with his hands at the two detectives: