“The fellow stopped here with his feet well apart.  He’d stand like that while he put up his gun.  Sit down and smoke while I copy these marks.”

He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some paper from the homestead.

“Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing shot he took?” George asked.

“I haven’t; I wish I had.  Quite a lot depends upon his position.”

George nodded.

“So it struck me.  We’ll look round for some more conclusive signs when you have finished.”

Before this happened.  Flora Grant rode up.

“I was going back from Forster’s when I noticed you moving about the hills,” she explained.  “I made this round to find out what you were doing.”

George told her, and her sympathy was obvious.

“I’m very sorry; but my father warned you,” she said.  “I’m afraid you’re finding this an expensive campaign.”

“I can put up with it, so long as I have my friends’ support.”

“I think you can count on that,” she smiled.  “But what is Flett’s theory?”

“If he has one, he’s clever at hiding it,” Edgar broke in; “but I’m doubtful.  In my opinion, he knows the value of the professional air of mystery.”

“When I see any use in it, I can talk,” retorted Flett.  “What’s your notion, Mr. Lansing?  You don’t agree that the fellow shot your beast from here?”

“No,” answered George.  “Of course, there are only two explanations of the thing, and the first is that it was an accident.  In that case, the fellow must have been out after antelope or cranes.”

“There’s an objection:  it’s close season; though I wouldn’t count too much on that.  You farmers aren’t particular when there’s nobody around.  Now, it’s possible that a man who’d been creeping up on an antelope would work in behind this rise and take a quick shot, standing, when he reached the top of it.  If so, I guess he’d have his eyes only on what he was firing at.  Suppose he missed, and your beast happened to be in line with him?”

Flora smiled.

“It’s not convincing, Mr. Flett.  Seen from here, the bull would be in the open, conspicuous against white grass and sand.”

“I didn’t say the thing was likely.  Won’t you go on, Mr. Lansing?”

“The other explanation is that the fellow meant to kill or mark the bull; the place where it was hit points to the former.  If that was his intention, he’d lie down or kneel to get a steadier aim.  We had better look for the spot.”

They spent some time before Flett thought he had found it.

“Somebody lay down here, and the bull would be up against a background of poplar scrub,” he said.  “I’ll measure off the distance and make a plan.”

He counted his paces, and had set to work with his notebook, when Flora interrupted.

“Wouldn’t a sketch be better?  Give me a sheet of paper; and has anybody another pencil?”