“’Twas a nice article to give himself airs and graces, and do the virtuous.”
“Yes, particularly so—wasn’t he?”
“I had one scrimmage with a horse thief which I shan’t easily forget,” said Shearman. “He was a resolute rascal, surely. I’ll tell you all about it. Light up another cigar before I begin.”
Mr. Wrench did as he was bid.
“You must know,” observed Shearman, who was never so happy as when recounting one or more of his adventures, “that I had been furnished by an Omaha express firm with the means to ferret out a horse thief, by whose operations they had lost some ten animals. Being persuaded by information, too tedious to detail, that the purloiner had gone to Silver Creek, on the Pacific Railroad, I proceeded to that unknown settlement, and immediately commenced operations.
“The man and his habits were so familiar to me from repeated description that I felt certain of identifying him in some of the many faro establishments of the place; or, failing in them, in one of the multitudinous fire-water dispensaries.
“One night I visited all the gambling banks unsuccessfully. The next I proceeded to inspect the drinking places. The first one was a large frame house, which I entered, and, while drinking, quickly scrutinised every face and incident.
“In the middle of the room, upon a huge barrel, stood a red-faced, broad-shouldered Irishman, in his one hand a bottle, in the other a glass; on the floor, close to the barrel’s base, crouched an ill-looking mastiff who eyed around savagely.
“At the bar was a tall man waiting the replenishing of his flask. His hat concealed half his face, and a scarlet handkerchief wound round his neck buried in its greasy folds a mass of matted, gipsy-like hair.
“I caught him glancing furtively at me when entering, then saw him turn his back; so I kept my eye brisk for any suspicious incident.