Huntly thrust a paper into his hand.
“It just came through.”
Fyles took it, and his strong brows drew together as he read the long story of the “hold-up” which the man had taken down from his instrument.
A deep silence prevailed while the officer read the news which so completely frustrated all his plans.
At last he looked up. Favoring the man Huntly with one inquiring glance, he turned to the corporal.
“It says here the brakeman heard the leader tell his men to make for the south trail. That was either bluff—or a mistake. They sometimes make mistakes, and that’s how we get our chances. The south trail is the road into Rocky Springs. Rocky Springs is twenty-two miles from White Point. They’ve probably had an hour’s start with a heavily loaded wagon. Rocky Springs is twenty-six from here by trail. Good. Say, tell the boys to get on the move quick. They’ll strike the south trail about seven miles northeast of Rocky Springs. If they ride hard they should cut them off, or, any way, hit their trail close behind them.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Fyles turned back to the inner room and picked up the telephone, ignoring the still waiting agent, the corporal hurried away.
In a moment the telephone bell rang out and the officer was speaking.
“Yes, sir, Fyles. Yes, at the Town Station. I’m coming up to barracks right away. It’s most important. I must see you. The whisky-runners have—doubled on us.”