“It’s a curious mark,” Hardie commented.

“Yes,” said George; “it’s a bullet hole.”

The surprise of the others was obvious.

“I think it’s a hint,” George explained.  “We’ll try to get him on his feet.”

They succeeded, and when the beast had been led into a stall, George turned to Hardie.

“As you said you wouldn’t stay the night, would you mind starting for the settlement now?  The livery stable fellow is said to be clever at veterinary work; you might send him out, and mail a note I’ll give you to the police.”

Hardie professed his willingness to be of service, and on getting into his buggy said, with some hesitation: 

“I’m afraid you’re right in your suspicions, and I’m particularly sorry.  In a way, I’m responsible for this.”

George smiled, rather grimly.

“One can’t go into a fight without getting hurt; and we haven’t come to the end of it yet.  This affair won’t cost you my support.”

The clergyman’s eyes sparkled as he held out his hand.

“I never imagined it—­you have my sympathy, Mr. Lansing.  It would give me the greatest pleasure to see the cowardly brute who fired that shot brought to justice.”

He drove away, and George went moodily back to the house with Edgar.

“That’s a man who has had to choose between his duty and his interest,” George said; “but just now we have other things to think about.  It’s a pity I can’t get the bullet out until help arrives.”

The livery man turned up on the following day and succeeded in extracting it; and Flett made his appearance the morning after.  He examined the wounded animal.

“It may have been done by accident; but, if so, it’s curious the beast should have been hit close to a place where it would have killed him,” he remarked.

“What’s your private opinion?” George asked.

The constable smiled.

“As we haven’t gone very far yet, I’ll reserve it.”  He took up the bullet.  “Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing to be made of that.  Now let’s go and take a look at the place where the shot was fired.”

They traced back the path of the wounded beast from the spot where Grierson had found it, by the red splashes that here and there stained the short grass of the unfenced prairie.  At last they stopped where the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled with small birches and poplars, and Flett pointed to the mark of hoofs in a strip of almost bare, light soil.

“This is where he was hit,” he said.  “You can see how he started off, going as hard as he could.  Next, we’ve got to find the spot the man fired from.”

It proved difficult.  The dry grass revealed nothing, and they vainly searched several of the neighboring hillocks, where it grew less thickly.  Scorching sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew the sand about.  At length Flett pointed to a few half-obliterated footprints on the bare summit of a small rise.