As the officers walked away and Sloat silently plodded along beside his dark-browed senior, the latter turned to him:
"I should say that there was no way in which Mr. Jerrold could have gone townwards last night. Should not you?"
"He might have crossed the bridge while the third relief was on, and got a horse at the other side."
"He didn't do that, Sloat. I had already questioned the sentry on that relief. It was the third that I inspected and visited this morning."
"Well, how do you know he wanted to go to town? Why couldn't he have gone up the river, or out to the range? Perhaps there was a little game of 'draw' out at camp."
"There was no light in camp, much less a little game of draw, after eleven o'clock. You know well enough that there is nothing of that kind going on with Gaines in command. That isn't Jerrold's game, even if those fellows were bent on ruining their eyesight and nerve and spoiling the chance of getting the men on the division and army teams. I wish it were his game, instead of what it is!"
"Still, Chester, he may have been out in the country somewhere. You seem bent on the conviction he was up to mischief here, around this post. I won't ask you what you mean; but there's more than one way of getting to town if a man wants to very bad."
"How? Of course he can take a skiff and row down the river; but he'd never be back in time for reveille. There goes six o'clock, and I must get home and shave and think this over. Keep your own counsel, no matter who asks you. If you hear any questions or talk about shooting last night, you know nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing."
"Shooting last night!" exclaimed Sloat, all agog with eagerness and excitement now. "Where was it? Who was it?"
But Chester turned a deaf ear upon him, and walked away. He wanted to see Rollins, and went straight home.