Gully regarded his lost property with smouldering eyes, and he uttered a ghastly imprecation.  “Yes, that’s it,” he said simply, “beggar’s boned the bills and chucked this away for fear of incriminating evidence—­in case he was nabbed again, I suppose.  The bills were mostly in fives and tens—­Standard Bank—­I remember.”

They climbed up onto the track to determine whether the foot-prints turned east or west; but further quest here proved useless, on account of its being a snow-beaten section-hand trail.

Slavin balked again, swore in fluent and horrible fashion.  For a space he remained in brooding thought, then he turned abruptly to his companions.

“Come on,” he jerked out savagely, “let’s get back.”

In silence they retraced their steps and eventually reached their horses.  Here the sergeant issued curt orders to his men.

“‘Tis onlikely th’ shtiff can have got very far away—­in th’ toime Mr. Gully tells us,” he said, “an’ he cannot shtay out in th’ opin for long this weather.  Get yu’re harses over th’ ice, bhoys, an’ make th’ thrack.  Ye’ll find an’ openin’ in th’ fence somewheres.  Thin shplit, an’ hug th’ line—­west, yu’, Yorkey—­as far as Coalmore—­yu’, Ridmond—­back tu Cow Run.  Yez know fwhat tu du.  Pass up nothin’—­culverts, bridges, section-huts—­anywhere’s th’ shtiff may be hidin’.  If yez du not dhrop onto um betune thim tu places—­shtay fwhere yez are an’ search all freights.  ‘Phone th’ agent at Davidsburg if yez want tu get me.  I’m away from there now—­to wire east an’ west.  Thin—­I’m goin’ tu ride freight awhile, up an’ down th’ thrack.  I can get Clem Wilson tu luk afther T an’ B. We must get this man, bhoys.”

“Look here, Sergeant,” broke in Gully good-naturedly, “as this is partly on my account I feel it’s up to me to try and do what little I can do to help you in this case.  There’s not much doing at the ranch just now, so, if you’ve no objection, I’ll put Silver along with your team and come with you.  As you say—­we’ve simply got to get this fellow, somehow.”

“Thank ye, Mr. Gully,” responded Slavin gratefully, “betune th’ bunch av us we shud nail th’ shtiff all right.”

“Should!” agreed the magistrate, enigmatically, “‘stiff’s’ the word for him.”  He glanced up at the lowering sky.  “Hullo!  It’s beginning to snow again—­you found those tracks just in time, Sergeant.”

Six days elapsed.  Six days of fruitless, monotonous work.  The evening of the seventh found the trio disconsolately reunited in their detachment.  Their quest had failed.  Slavin, not sparing himself, had worked Yorke and Redmond to the limits of their endurance, and they, fully realizing the importance of their objective, had responded loyally.

Gully, apparently betraying a keen interest in the case, had gone out of his way to assist them—­both on the railroad and in scouring the country-side.  They were absolutely and utterly played out, and their nerves were jangled and snappy.  No possible hiding-place had been overlooked—­yet the hobo—­Dick Drinkwater—­the one man who undoubtedly held the key to the mysterious murder of Larry Blake—­had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.