The horses steamed and breathed
heavily in the keen air.
I kept my hand on the revolver that lay in my overcoat pocket, and
walked with Dicky on to the porch. It was a common roadside saloon, and
at this hour it appeared wholly deserted. Even the dog, without which I
knew no roadside saloon could exist, was as silent as its owners.
"Here's a go!" said Dicky. "He was to meet us, sure. What time have you
got?"
I struck a match in a corner and looked at my watch by its flare.
"Five minutes to three."
"Whew!" he whispered, "we're regularly done. I thought he had a bad eye
when I was bargaining with him."
I wondered if Dicky had a hand in the trick, if trick it should prove
to be.
"He may be up stairs," I suggested.
Dicky groaned. "It's like advertising with a band wagon to rout 'em out
at this time of the night," he whispered.
"The enemy have been along here ahead of us," I said. "They may have
picked him up."
"That's like enough," said Dicky ruefully. "But if they've got him, we
might as well take the back tracks for town and hunt up a sheriff or
two, or send for the boys to come over."
"It's too late to do that," said I decidedly. "We must go on at once."
"Well," said Dicky dubiously, "I think I know where the fellow would
have taken us. I trailed him this afternoon, and I'll lay two to one
that I can pick out the right road."
"Is this the third road from Brooklyn?" I asked pointing to the track
that led to the left.
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