“Gentle Christmas!” muttered Patsy. “This is some traveling! I believe my back teeth have been jolted up into the parting of my hair. Let her go! I can stand it if the rest can! But I’ll need new suspender buttons when we do stop.”
The bullets snored over their heads, the motor car being hidden by a bluff that ran for a considerable distance along the side of the road, just high enough to protect them.
“We’ll make it all right,” predicted Chick, gazing ahead.
“We have a long stretch where there is no protection—or very little—after we get away from this bluff,” remarked Nick Carter. “Still, I doubt if they can get our range at that distance.”
It appeared that the rascals could not get the range, for when, a few minutes afterward, the detective had run the car past the bluff and was tearing away along the path faster than was quite safe—considering that there was a precipice along one side over which an automobile might easily tip if the driver were careless for a fraction of a second or anything went wrong with the steering gear—a volley was discharged on the hill far above without one of the bullets coming anywhere near the car.
“Glory!” yelled Patsy. “There’s nothing to it! We’ve got ’em licked to a frazzle! Open her up, chief! This car for Penza and Joyalita! Watch your step! Don’t get off the car backward! Transfer at the border line without another fare! Wow! Who-o-op!”
Patsy liked to cut loose whenever there was an excuse for a demonstration, and he felt that this was one.
Nick Carter smiled at his assistant’s enthusiasm, but never took his mind off his car.
“Are they getting ready to fire again, Chick?” he asked.
“Don’t seem to be. They’re racing along on their horses, keeping up with us or trying to get ahead.”