“I am afraid,” he said, “that there can be no doubt about that. I saw the Chinaman whom Laura is so fond of sneaking away from this tent a few minutes ago, and I suspected some devilry. That is why I went and fetched my revolver.”
There was a roar of anger from French. He snatched the weapon from the Professor’s hand.
“I’ll kill that yellow dog!” he shouted. “Where is he?”
He dashed across the open space towards the camp wagon. His teeth were set, and there was murder in his blazing eyes.
“Where’s that Chinaman?” he yelled at the top of his voice.
The cowboys struggled to their feet. The Chinaman, who was sitting inside the cook wagon, poring over a book by the light of a lantern, recognised the note of fury in French’s tone and raised his head, startled. A paroxysm of fear seized him. The very moment that French threw open the door of the wagon, he kicked the lantern across the floor and plunged at the canvas sides of the vehicle, slipping underneath until he reached the ground. French, left in darkness, groped around for a moment and then emerged. The cowboys had gathered together outside.
“Say, Mr. Inspector French,” one of them demanded, “what’s wrong with John Chinaman? You folks seem to have a sort of grudge against our cooks. What’s the Oriental been doing, eh?”
“Tried to commit a filthy murder,” French shouted. “Brought a snake and put it into the bed of one of the young women.”
They hesitated no longer.
“Come on, boys,” one of them cried. “We’ll have to see this matter through.”