“Smart work, sergeant,” he said quietly.  “I’m not surprised that this fellow rode roughshod over the district for so long and escaped all who were sent to nab him.  He’s clever, is P. Retief, Esq.”

Horrocks was looking out across the great keg.  Strangely enough they had halted within twenty yards of the willow bush, at which point the secret path across the mire began.  The man with the gold chevrons upon his arm ignored the remark of his companion, but answered with words which occurred in his own train of thought.

“It’s plain enough, I guess.  Yonder is the direction taken by the cattle,” he said, nodding his head towards the distant peaks of the mountains beyond.  “But who’s got the nerve to follow ’em?  Say,” he went on sharply, “somewhere along this bank, I mean in the mile and a half of hoof marks, there’s a path turns out, or, at least, firm ground by which it is possible to cross this devil’s keg.  It must be so.  Cattle can’t be spirited away.  Unless, of course—­but no, a man don’t duff cattle to drown ’em in a swamp.  They’ve crossed this pernicious mire, boys.  We may nab our friend, Retief, but we’ll never clap eyes on those beasts.”

“It’s the same old business over again, sergeant,” said one of the troopers.  “I was on this job before, and I reckon we landed hereabouts every time we lit on Retief’s trail.  But we never got no further.  Yonder keg is a mighty hard nut to crack.  I guess the half-breed’s got the bulge on us.  If path across the mire there is he knows it and we don’t, and, as you say, who’s goin’ to follow him?” Having delivered himself of these sage remarks he stepped to the brink of the mire and put his foot heavily upon its surface.  His top-boot sank quickly through the yielding crust, and the black subsoil rose with oily, sucking action, ’and his foot was immediately buried out of sight.  He drew it out sharply, a shudder of horror quickening his action.  Strong man and hardy as he was, the muskeg inspired him with a superstitious terror.  “Guess there ain’t no following them beasties through that, sergeant.  Leastways, not for me.”

Horrocks had watched his subordinate’s action thoughtfully.  He knew, without showing, that no man or beast could attempt to cross the mire with any hope of success without the knowledge of some secret path.  That such a path, or paths, existed he believed, for many were the stories of how criminals in past days escaped prairie law by such means.  However, he had no knowledge of any such paths himself, and he had no intention of sacrificing his life uselessly in an attempt to discover the keg’s most jealously guarded secret.

He turned back to his horse and prepared to vault into the saddle.

“It’s no use, boys.  We are done for to-day.  You can ride back to the settlement.  I have another little matter on hand.  If any of you see Lablache just tell him I shall join him in about two hours’ time.”

Horrocks rode off and his four troopers headed towards the Foss River.