“If we only had the ammonia pistol,” sighed Toby, murderously, getting the wrench and cocking it.
A gentle voice tinged with the sharp edge of command came from the younger man. “Better stop a minute, lady!”
We stopped, entirely contrary to our hastily made plans. Something in his level tone, and in a quick little gesture the man behind him made, changed our minds.
Without removing his hand from his hip the other man, who I quickly decided was the more desperate character of the two, strolled about our car with an appraising and well satisfied look. At that moment we felt we were indeed a long, long ways from home. I began to calculate the time it would take to walk to Tucson,—hampered, possibly, by a bullet wound. Then he pulled open his coat, and a gleam of metal caught the sunlight.
“I’m the sheriff of Pima County,” he said, briefly.
I did not believe him. I put my foot on the gas, and tightened my grip on the wheel, measuring the road ahead and calculating the slight chance of crowding past his car and up the steep hill ahead.
“Please show us your badge again, if you don’t mind.”
He gave us a full view of it this time. It looked genuine enough,—a silver star, not quite so large as the planet Jupiter, with rays darting therefrom, and Pima printed on it in bold letters,—a staggering affair, calculated to inspire respect for law and order.
“Were we speeding?” Toby faltered, remembering Houston.
“We’re making a little search,” he replied very crisply.