“I see them,” responded Cavanagh. “Get out your glasses and tell me who they are.”
Swenson unslung his field-glasses and studied the party attentively. “Looks like Van Horne’s sorrel in the lead, and that bald-face bay just behind looks like the one Gregg rides. The other two I don’t seem to know.”
“Perhaps it’s the sheriff after me for harboring Edwards,” suggested Cavanagh.
But Swenson remained sober. He did not see the humor of the remark. “What are they doing on the forest, anyhow?” he asked.
Half an hour later the two parties came face to face on a little stretch of prairie in the midst of the wooded valley. There were four in the sheriff’s party: Gregg, the deputy, and a big man who was a stranger to Cavanagh. Their horses were all tired, and the big civilian looked saddle-weary.
“Good evenin’, gentlemen!” called the sheriff, in Southern fashion, as he drew near.
“Good evenin’, Mr. Sheriff,” Cavanagh civilly answered. “What’s the meaning of this invasion of my forest?”
The sheriff, for answer, presented the big stranger. “Mr. Cavanagh, this is Mr. Simpson, the county attorney.”
Cavanagh nodded to the attorney. “I’ve heard of Mr. Simpson,” he said.
Simpson answered the question Ross had asked. “We were on our way to your station, Mr. Cavanagh, because we understand that this old man Dunn who shot himself had visited you before his death, giving you information concerning the killing of the Mexican sheep-herders. Is that true?”