“That’s how I made my money,” grinned old Luther Barr.
“Then, you’ve not been in Pintoville at all?”
“No, not for a minute. We had to land at White Willow; there’s something gone wrong with the engine of Slade’s ship. They are working on it now.”
“That’s why we were so anxious to have the boys’ aeroplane disabled, so that we could take our own time,” put in Reade. “You are quite sure it is burned up?”
“Sure; why, I saw it with these here eyes,” declared Noggy Wilkes. “Do you think we’d have taken your money if it hadn’t bin all destroyed, Mr. Reade?”
“What do you think we are—thieves?” demanded Wild Bill Jenkins, with what sounded like real indignation.
“Come, come, let’s be getting on,” urged old Barr. “They may pick up our trail, you know.”
As he spoke and the autos started, there was a low growl of thunder. One of the rare thunderstorms that occasionally sweep over the desert where it adjoins the mountains was coming up.
“Not after the storm they won’t,” laughed Hank Higgins confidently, “the rain that that will bring will mighty soon wash out our trail.”
As they speeded along a few minutes later the rain began to fall in torrents.