This information put both men in a swearing temper.
"If he's on foot anywhere within a dozen miles of us," growled Hank, "we'll get him. Come on, Spangler! Spurs and quirts, while we run the coyote down."
Releasing the half-strangled Carl, Hank leaped out of the car. Together they started for the trailside, and the wooded slope leading to the gap.
But they were not gone, yet. Just as they began to mount the slope, Spangler gave vent to an angry yell.
"Look thar, Hank," he roared, pointing along the road beyond the tree. "Now who's played it low-down on us?"
Matt ran back to the car and climbed up to the front seat. From that elevation he was able to look off and see what it was that had claimed Hank's frantic attention.
Carl was already staring across the tree and into the distance. Two mounted men were galloping up the road, one of them leading a horse with an empty saddle.
One of the men was Tomlinson; the other was——
"Pringle!" muttered Carl; "py chiminy grickets, dere goes dot feller vat shkipped mit all vat I hat!"
Hank and Spangler were furious.