Mr. Bolton, whose face was crimson with annoyance, shot a glance of reproof at the tall, broad-shouldered young fellow at his side.
“Whatever it is, you’ll only make things worse by trying to heckle these people. The men behind are quite evidently underlings. When we meet this boss they speak of, it will be time enough to demand an explanation. Why the owner of this place should treat strangers in this cavalier manner is beyond me, I confess.”
“If you ask me, Dad, I believe we are walking into a mess that has last night’s seance at sea beat forty ways to Sunday.”
“I hope you are wrong,” his father answered stiffly. “But if Diego and his loud-voiced friend aren’t criminals they should be, with faces like theirs. We certainly seem to have been blown out of the frying pan straight into the fire.”
Quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the first of the buildings they had sighted from the hillside. Closer inspection proved it to be a long, one-storied affair with a flat roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It looked hot and stuffy, and the Boltons noted that the small windows set high up were barred with rusty iron.
“Looks like a Mexican jail to me,” declared Bill.
“I’ve never seen one,” his father replied. Mr. Bolton was in no state, physically or mentally, for facetious conversation.
“Neither have I, except in the movies—”
“An’ dis is where we stops. In yer goes!”
Diego’s partner appeared at Bill’s elbow and motioned toward the building with the muzzle of his gun. Diego, who so far had made no observation of his own, produced a key. The heavy door swung inward and the Boltons were rudely forced to enter.