Here were yellow butterflies, sandpipers and kingfishers,
and now and then an eagle cleaved the dazzling blue overhead with
magnificent wing-strokes. Sand hills reflected the white sunlight.
Beyond glistened a stretch of open sea with a flock of beautiful
gannets of black and white whipping its surface. But Ronador did not
thrill to the peaceful picture. He glanced instead at the buzzard
which seemed curiously to hang above the long black car.
Now presently as he eyed the road ahead for a glimpse of the van,
Ronador saw the familiar lines of a music-machine and drove by it with
a glance of interest. Instantly the blood rushed violently to his
face. For, as the horse and music-machine had been familiar, so was
the driver, who swept a broad sombrero from his head and revealed the
face of Philip Poynter.
With a curse Ronador abruptly brought the car to a standstill. The
very irony of this masquerade fired him with terrible anger.
"You!" he choked. "You!"
Philip nodded.
"I guess you're right," he said.
The blazing dark eyes and the calm, unruffled blue ones met in a glance
of implacable antagonism. Not in the least impressed Philip replaced
his sombrero and spoke to his horse. Fish crows flew overhead with
croaks of harsh derision.
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