CHAPTER XVII.
THE WRONG MAN.
In the meantime, while the glare of the flames still shone behind them, two autos were speeding over the plains. The first, in which was seated Luther Barr, Frank Reade and Hank Higgins, had been waiting just outside the town ever since the boys had heard it chug away before the fire started.
Barr and his companions had spent the interim in ill-disguised impatience. Reade in particular seemed gloomy and apprehensive.
“This is dangerous business, Barr,” he said. “If anything falls through, we might as well make up our minds to be lynched.”
“What is the use of talking like that,” snapped the old man. “Wild Bill Jenkins is a reliable man, Hank.”
“He sure is that, Barr,” rejoined the gambler. “If he says he’ll do a thing that thing is as good as did, and you may take your gospel on that.”
“And your partner, Noggy Wilkes?”
“Why, Barr,” declared the other earnestly, “that feller would rather stick up a stage or rob a bank than sit down to a chicken dinner.”
“Hum,” said old Barr, evidently highly pleased by the very dubious recommendations, “he must be an enterprising young man.”
“I don’t know what that ther word may mean, Barr,” declared Higgins, gravely, “but if et means he’s a good man for this job you can take your Davy he is.”