The trail kept on toward the hills, and the sagacious darky reflected that Cliff was likely going to join the main body of his men.
“I jes’ fink I can see what dat rascal am up to,” muttered Pomp. “He am jus’ too sharp to let de game slip him once he gits his clutches onto it. He am jus’ goin’ fo’ to take de Steam Man to his Ranch V., and dar’s whar dis darky must go an’ try fo’ to work some leetle plan fo’ to rescue Frank Reade, Jr., an’ de odders. Dat am a fac’.”
With this logical conclusion Pomp trudged on.
He was now on the last five miles of his journey to the hills. The sun was long past the noon hour when Pomp, by dint of rapid walking, had made the hills.
There was no sign visible of the Steam Man or of the cowboys.
But Pomp saw that the trail continued around the base of the hills.
This puzzled the darkey a moment.
He paused and scratched his head in deep thought.
“Dat am a dretful queer thing,” he muttered. “Dat ain’t de way to go to Ranch V, if I’se right in mah conjeckshun.”
Then he paused, and a light of comprehension broke across his face.