“I did not!” the dame retorted indignantly.  “I gave him a cup of coffee an’ sumphin’ t’ eat—­he was that cold, poor feller—­an’ I arst him how his face come t’ be in such a state.  He said sumphin ‘bout it bein’ so cold up in th’ loft he come down amongst th’ horses ‘bout midnight—­t’ get warmed up.  He said he was lyin’ in one o’ th’ mangers asleep when a feller brought a horse in—­an’ th’ light woke him up an’ when he went t’ climm outa th’ manger th’ horse got scared an’ pulled back an’ musta stepped on this feller’s foot—­fur th’ feller started swearin’ at him an’ pulled him outa th’ manger an’ beat him up an’—­”

But Slavin had heard enough.  With a most ungallant ejaculation he swung on his heel and started towards the stable, beckoning hastily to Yorke and Redmond to follow.

“Yu hear that?” he burst out on them, with lowered, savage tones.  “I knew ut—­I felt ut at th’ toime—­that shtinkin’ rapparee av a hobo was lyin’—­whin he said he did not renumber a harse bein’ brought back.  We must go get um—­right-away!” His grim face wore a terribly ruthless expression just then.  “My God!” he groaned out from between clenched teeth, “but I will put th’ third degree tu um, an’ make um come across this toime!  Saddle up, bhoys! while I go an’ hitch up T an’ B. Damnation!  I wish Gully’s place was on the phone!”

Some quarter of an hour later they were proceeding rapidly towards Gully’s ranch which lay some fifteen miles west of Cow Run, on the lower or river trail.  A cold wind had sprung up and the weather had turned cloudy and dull, as if presaging snow, two iridescent “sun-dogs” indicating a forthcoming drop in the temperature.

Yorke and Redmond, riding in the cutter’s wake, carried on a desultory.  Jerky conversation anent the many baffling aspects of the case in hand.  Gully’s name came up.  His strange personality was discussed by them from every angle; impartially by Yorke—­frankly antagonistically by Redmond.

“Yes! he is a rum beggar, in a way,” admitted Yorke, “not a bad sort of duck, though, when you get to know him—­when he’s not in one of his rotten, brooding fits.  He sure gets ‘Charley-on-his-back’ sometimes.  Used to hit the booze pretty hard one time, they say.  Tried the ’gold-cure’—­then broke out again”—­he lowered his voice at the huge, bear-like back of the sergeant—­“all same him.  I don’t know—­somehow—­it always seems to leave em’ cranky an’ queer—­that.  Neither of ’em married either—­’baching it,’ living alone, year after year, and all that, too.”

“Better for you—­if you took the cure, too!” George flung at him grinning rudely.  He neck-reined Fox sharply and dodged a playful punch from his comrade.  “Yorkey, old cock, I’m goin’ to break you from ’hard stuff’ to beer—­if I have to pitch into you every day.”

“You’re an insultin’, bullyin’ young beggar,” remarked Yorke ruefully.  “I’ll have to ‘take shteps,’ as Burke says, and discipline you a bit, young fellow-me-lad!  I don’t wonder the old man pulled you in from Gleichen.  Come to think of it, why, you’re the bright boy that they say well-nigh started a mutiny down Regina!  We heard a rumour about it up here.  Say, what was that mix-up, Reddy?”