“No, sir. I was dragged——”
“Never mind what happened. You didn’t give the alarm?”
“No, sir.”
“Quick, McBain!” Fyles almost shouted. “They’ve done us. Cut him loose, and follow me. They’re on the Fort Allerton trail—or my name’s not Fyles.”
Peter led the race for the Fort Allerton trail. The dark night clouds were breaking when they reached the spot where the inspector had originally stationed himself. They passed on, and a glimmer of moonlight peeped out at them as they reached the trail side.
Fyles and McBain leaped from their saddles and examined the sandy surface of it. Two of the troopers joined them.
At length the officer spoke, and his voice had lost something of its sharp tone of authority.
“They’ve beaten us, McBain,” he cried. “God’s curse on them, they’ve played us at our own game, and—beaten us. A wagon and team’s passed here less than five minutes ago. Look at the dust track they’ve left.”
Fyles stood up. Then he started, and an angry glitter shone in his gray eyes. A horseman was silently looking on at the group of dismounted men, deliberately watching their movements. In the heat of the hunt no one had heard his approach. He sat there looking on in absolute silence.