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Page 48
Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line. At the
foot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly and
uttered an oath. Stooping down he picked up something and, turning round
to his companions exhibited his find. It was a small, black-leather
bill-folder--empty.
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.
The horses cared for, and supper over, Yorke and Redmond lay back on
their cots and _blagu�'d_ each other wearily anent their mutual ill-luck.
Slavin, critically conning over a lengthy crime-report on the case that
he had prepared for headquarters, flung his composition on the table and
leant back dejectedly in his chair.
"Hoboes?" quoth he, darkly, and tongue-clucked in dismal fashion. "Eyah!
I just fancy I can hear th' ould man dishcoursin' tu Kilbride av th'
merry, int'restin' ways an' habits av th' genus--hobo--whin he get's this
report av mine. . . . Like he did wan day whin he was doin' show-man
round th' cells wid a bunch av ould geezers av 'humanytaruns.' I mind I
was Actin' Provo' in charge av th' Gyard-room at th1 toime."
He sighed deeply, folded up the report and thrust it into an official
envelope. "Well, bhoys," he concluded, "we have done all that men
can'--for th' toime bein' anyways."
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