“Lord, yes! I filled the tank plumb full, and it’s one of them old thirty-gallon tanks. But somebody’ll maybe run across him trying to fill the radiator or something, and see the leg irons and take him in. Tires ain’t none too good--maybe he’ll have tire trouble. I sure hope so,” he added unnecessarily. Abington, leaning to push at the side of the car while he kept one hand on the steering wheel, did not answer. Park added his weight at the front fender, straining until his gloomy countenance went purple. The car rolled over the hump, and Abington hopped nimbly to the running board, watched his chance and straddled in behind the wheel. * * * * * Some time was lost in negotiating the turn. After that, coasting down the road with a dead engine cooled the cylinders considerably. By skillful management Abington was able to start the motor and use what power was needed to drive the car up over certain small knolls near the foot of the cañon. At the edge of the long valley, a hill gave them momentum sufficient to carry them well down toward a white, leprous expanse, called Soda Lake, with a tiny settlement a few miles beyond. Here, in the chuck holes of the soda-incrusted lake bed, the car refused to go any farther without power, and power in that grilling heat required a full radiator. Even so, the two made fair time walking, and at the settlement Abington was able to hire a man to haul water out to the car. Also, Park was successful in getting wires through to the sheriff’s office at Tonopah, and also at Goldfield, the only points he believed Bill Jonathan would attempt to reach. “If you like, sheriff, we can follow up your man at once,” Abington suggested when Park came out of the telegraph office looking less worried. “I’m willing to postpone the pleasure of chastising Shorty and Pete, and drive you straight through to Tonopah. Water is the only thing I needed for the trip, and the man is waiting out here with a full supply, ready to drive us back to my car. At the most we will be only three hours behind the fugitive and, as you say, he can’t do much with leg irons on. “He’ll need to have a remarkable run of luck if he reaches there ahead of us. For instance, your motor had been heating, and you had only half a canteen of water. As I remember the road, there’s a long, hard climb for several miles beyond that cañon. He’ll be compelled to fill up with water at that spring just over the summit; one stop, at least, where he will have enough awkward walking to hold him there twice as long as a man with his legs free. So--” “Say, Doctor Abington, you sure can figure things out!” Park grinned while he bit the end off a forlorn-looking cigar he had just bought at the little store. “You ought to be a detective.”