And, far-off as yet, but rapidly approaching them at a gallop, they beheld a rider.

“Sure is hittin’ th’ high spots,” remarked the sergeant wonderingly, “fwhat th’ divil’s up now?”

Gradually the distance lessened between them and presently Gully, mounted upon a splendid, powerfully-built gray, checked his furious pace and reined in with an impatient jerk, a few lengths from the police team.  Redmond could not help noticing that Gully, for a heavy man, possessed a singularly-perfect seat in the saddle, riding with the sure, free, unconscious grace of an habitue of the range.  He was roughly dressed now, in overalls, short sheepskin coat, and “chaps.”

He shouted a salutation to the trio, his usually immobile face transformed into an expression of scowling anxiety.  “Hullo!” he boomed, his guttural bass sounding hoarse with passion, “You fellows didn’t meet that d——­d hobo on the trail, I suppose? . . .  I’m looking for him—­in the worst way!”

He flung out of saddle and strode alongside the cutter.  “About two hours ago—­’not more, I’ll swear—­I pulled out to take a ride around the cattle—­like I usually do, every day.  I left the beggar busy enough, bucking fire-wood.  I wasn’t away much over an hour, but when I got back I found he’d drifted—­couldn’t locate him anywhere.

“Then I remembered I’d left some money lying around—­inside the drawer of a bureau in my bedroom—­’bout a hundred, I guess—­in one of these black-leather bill-folders.  Sure enough, it’s gone, too.  Damnation!”

He leaned up against the cutter and mopped his streaming forehead.  “I was a fool to ever attempt to help a man like that out,” he concluded bitterly.  “It serves me right!”

“Well,” said Slavin, with an oath, “th’ shtiff cannot have got far-away in that toime.  I want um as bad as yuh, Mr. Gully.  We were on th’ way tu yu’re place for um.  See here; luk!”

Gully heard him out and whistled softly at the conclusion of the narrative.  “Once collar this man, Sergeant,” said he, “and—­you’ve practically got your case.  Make him talk?”—­the low, guttural laugh was not good to hear—­“Oh, yes! . . .  I think between us we could accomplish that all right! . . .  Yes-s!”

His voice died away in a murmur, a cruel glint flickered in his shadowy eyes, and for a space he remained with folded arms and his head sunk in a sort of brooding reverie.  Suddenly, with an effort, he seemed to arouse himself.  “Oh, about that inquest, Sergeant,” he queried casually, “what was the jury’s finding?  I was forgetting all about that.”

“Eyah; on’y fwhat yuh might expect,” replied the latter.  “Death by shootin’, at th’ hand av some person unknown.  I wired headquarthers right-away.”  He made a slightly impatient movement.  “Well, we must get busy, Mr. Gully; this shtiff connot be far away.  Not bein’ on th’ thrail, betune us an’ yu’, means he’s either beat ut shtraight south from yu’re place an’ over th’ ice tu th’ railway-thrack, or west a piece, an’ thin onto th’ thrack.  Yu’ll niver find a hobo far away from th’ line.  He’d niver go thrapsein’ thru’ th’ snow tu th’ high ground beyant.  Yuh cud shpot him plain for miles—­doin’ that—­comin’ along.”