As the man’s confederate did not appear I decided he was outside with the rest of the stolen animals.

When Mr. Forbush’s mule was put up at auction I came down to the corral and walked through the crowd of bidders.

The packer saw me, and tried to get away, but I seized him firmly by the shoulder.

“I guess, my friend,” said I, “that you’ll have to go with me.  Make any resistance and I’ll shoot you on the spot!”

To the auctioneer and an inquisitive officer I showed my commission as a United States detective.  With Farley and Green, who were close at hand, I took my prisoner three miles down the Platte.  There we dismounted, and began preparations to hang our prisoner to a limb.  We informed him that he could escape this fate only by telling us where his partner was hidden.

He at first denied having any partner, but when we gave him five minutes to live unless he told the truth, he said his pal was in an unoccupied house three miles farther down the river.

We took up our journey, and, coming in sight of the house, saw a number of animals grazing near it.  As we rode to the door, another of our old packers, whom I recognized as Bill Bevins, stepped to the front door.  I instantly covered him with my rifle and ordered him to throw up his hands before he could draw his revolver.

Looking through the house, we found saddles, pack-saddles, lariats, blankets, overcoats, and two Henry rifles.  We returned with the whole outfit to Denver, where we lodged Williams and Bevins in jail.  The next day we tied each man to a mule and started on the return journey.

At the hotel where we had stopped before making the arrests, we were joined by our man with the pack mule.  That night we camped on Cherry Creek, seventeen miles from Denver.

It was April, and the weather was cold and stormy.  We found a warm and cozy camping-place in the bend of the creek.  We made our beds in a row—­feet to the fire.  The prisoners had thus far been docile and I did not think it necessary to hobble them.  They slept inside, and it was arranged that some one was to be constantly on guard.  About one o’clock in the morning it began snowing.  Shortly before three, Jack Farley, who was on guard, and sitting at the foot of the bed with his back to the prisoners, was kicked into the fire by Williams.  The next instant Bevins, who had got hold of his shoes, sprang up, jumped over the fire, and started away on the run.

As soon as I was enough awake to comprehend what was going on I sent a shot after him.  Williams attempted to follow Bevins, but as he did so I knocked him down with the butt of my revolver.  Farley had by this time got out of the fire.  Green had started after Bevins, firing at him as he ran, but the thief made his escape into the brush.

In his flight, unfortunately for him, he dropped one of his shoes.

Leaving Williams in charge of Farley and “Long Doc,” the man with the pack mule, Green and I struck out for Bevins.  We heard him breaking through the brush, but, knowing it would be useless to try to follow him on foot, we went back and saddled two of the fastest horses.  At daylight we struck out on his trail, which was plainly visible in the snow.