The policemen had, naturally, increased their lead, although Tom strove hard to close up the gap between them. From the shaggy sides of his horse rose clouds of steam; the pony’s eyes were distended, his ears thrown back. He seemed to be on the point of bolting again, when the lad, eagerly gazing over the landscape, saw a dark spot coming into view.
“The wagon!” he exclaimed.
Billy Ashe and his companions were thundering over the prairie as fast as their horses could take them. And now, as the distance was being cut down with remarkable rapidity, the canvas-covered wagon began to show clearly in the moonlight. But there were no indications of horsemen near.
Billy Ashe was evidently right. Tom’s appearance on the scene had resulted in the men’s becoming alarmed and abandoning the vehicle. The two policemen soon covered the last stretch, and jumped from the saddle.
Scarcely had their investigations been begun when Tom Clifton clattered up, sawing away on the halter and yelling sharp commands to his horse.
“Well, if this chap hasn’t the biggest nerve I ever heard of!” cried Ashe.
“They have flown, eh?” exclaimed Tom, when at length he managed to conquer his fractious steed.
“I should think they have flown!” growled the trooper, his eyes flashing angrily. “When a man wants a nice piece of beefsteak he isn’t satisfied with gravy. We were after the men—not a wagon-load of contraband stuff, eh, Witmar?”
“Aye, aye!” said his companion.
“You can’t put the blame on me,” cried Tom, hotly.