An explosion below told them that the robbers had blown open the safe. Presently Soapy’s voice came faintly to them.
“Bring up the horses.”
He called again, and a third time. The dwarfed figures of the outlaws stood out clear in the moonlight. One of them ran up the track toward the draw. He disappeared into the scrub oaks, from whence his alarmed voice came in a minute.
“Dutch! Oh, Dutch!”
The revolver rim pressed a little harder against the bridge of the horse wrangler’s nose.
“He ain’t here,” Blackwell called back to his accomplices.
That brought Stone on the run. “You condemned idiot, he must be there. Ain’t he had two hours to get here since he left Tin Cup?”
They shouted themselves hoarse. They wandered up and down in a vain search. All the time Curly and his prisoner sat in the brush and scarcely batted an eye.
At last Soapy gave up the hunt. The engine and the express car were sent back to join the rest of the train and as soon as they were out of sight the robbers set out across country toward the Flatiron ranch.
Curly guessed their intentions. They would rustle horses there and head for the border. It was the only chance still left them.