“We've wasted time enough on him,” said Beveridge, catching his breath.
“Who—oh, it's McGlory! Is—is he—”
“Shouldn't wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?”
They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence.
“Hold on,” said Dick. “There's that cord-wood we used on the front door.”
“That will do.”
So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper came running up, his shoe in his hand. “I didn't know you was going to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge. I 'most cut my foot to pieces running up here.”
“Come along, Dick,” said Beveridge.
“Good Lord!” gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special agent. “What they been doing to you?”
But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. “Stay here at the steps, Harper, and if any more come up, don't let 'em get away from you.” With the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm.