“I’m Captain Funcke,” said the stranger. His speech was gentle, slow, even hesitant; but there was something competent and reliable in his bearing which satisfied the shrewd young reader of men’s characters from the outset. “Your wire got me two days since and I came right up.”
“Any trace?”
“Left here two days ago.”
“Three of them?”
“Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light.”
“Know anything of the men?”
“Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copper outfit in the mountains east of Alamo.”
“Where do you think they’re headed for?”
“Probably the wildest country they can find, if they want to get rid of young Hoff,” said the other, who had been apprised of the main points of the situation. “That would likely be the Pinto range, to the southwest of the Laguna. Richford knows that country a little. He was in there two years ago.”
“They would probably want to get rid of him without obvious murder;” said Average Jones. “You see, his money is in certified checks which they’d have to get cashed. If some one should find his body with a bullet-hole in it, they’d have some explaining to do.”