"He probably goes straight home from here," surmised the quick-witted Corbell. "He wouldn't carry a lot of mail around with him otherwise."
"The park is a nice dark place," observed Bill Hunter. "He must pass that."
Corbell leaped delightedly on the big man and rumpled up his hair.
"Bill, at times you are without price!" he cried. "Quick—Frank, you run around and get the buckboard and drive to the southeast corner of the park and wait there. Go on; get! You want to hurry! Come on, Bill, get up your muscle: we'll need you!"
They all trooped out through the bar and disappeared into the night. At about the same instant another individual, to whom Boyd's habits had become accurately known, descended at the edge of town from a ramshackle vegetable wagon and took his leisurely way toward the park. He held his arms folded placidly across his stomach, and in one of his flowing sleeves he carried a 45 Colt's revolver with the barrel sawed off short.
VIII
Arrived at the park, the men sat down to await Patrick Boyd's arrival. There was no reason to conceal themselves; Boyd would have no suspicion; so they merely sat on one of the benches so placed as to give them a view of the corner with the street lamp. After five minutes a dark figure came into view. It was obviously not Boyd, so the Sociedad sat tight. The newcomer, instead of passing, looked up and down the street, and then slipped into the shadow of a cassia, where he waited. This was interesting. The Sociedad sat up and took notice.
"Looks like a hold-up," breathed Corbell to Shot Sheridan.
Big Bill Hunter was stooped over busily unlacing his shoes. He leaned toward his companions.
"Watch me get him," he whispered; and started across the soft grass.
They watched him, fascinated. Here was where Big Bill excelled. An inch at a time he stole forward, without abrupt
