Perilla was a town of some size, and at this hour the main street was fairly well crowded with a picturesque throng of cowboys, Mexicans, and Indians from the near-by reservation, with the usual mingling of more prosaic-looking business men. Not a few motor-cars mingled with horsemen and wagons of various sorts in the roadway, but as Buck’s glance fell on a big, shiny, black touring-car standing at the curb, he was struck by a sudden feeling of familiarity. 266
Mechanically he noted the license-number. Then his eyes narrowed as he saw the pudgy, heavily-built figure in the tan dust-coat on the point of descending from the tonneau.
An instant later they were face to face. For a second the fat man glanced at him indifferently with that same pouting droop to the small lips which Stratton knew he never could forget. Then, like a flash, the round eyes widened and filled with horror, the jaw dropped, the fat face turned to a pale, sickly green. A choking gurgle burst from the man’s lips, and he seemed on the point of collapse when a hand reached out and dragged him back into the car, which, at a hasty word from the occupant of the back seat, shot from the curb and hummed rapidly away.
Thinking to stop them by shooting up the tires. Buck’s hand dropped instinctively to his gun. But he realized in time that such drastic methods were neither expedient nor necessary. Instead, he turned and halted a man of about forty who was passing.
“Any idea who that fellow is?” he asked, motioning toward the car, just whirling around the next corner. “He’s short and fat, in a big black Hammond car.”
“Short and fat in a Hammond car?” repeated the man, staring down the street. “Hum! Must be Paul Draper from Amarillo. He’s the only one I know 267 around these parts who owns a Hammond. Come to think, though, his car is gray.”
“He’s probably had it painted lately,” suggested Stratton quietly. “Much obliged. I thought I’d seen him before some place.”