He put all this aside—for the time—by remembering that he was a soldier under orders, and that marriage was a long way off, and so smoked his pipe and waited for the dawn, persistent as a Sioux, and as silent as a fox.
At daylight, there being still no sign of his quarry, he saddled his horse, and was about to ride up the trail when he caught the sound of voices and the sharp click of iron hoofs on the rocks above him. With his horse’s bridle on his arm he awaited the approaching horseman, resolute and ready to act.
As the marauders rounded the elbow in the trail, he was surprised to recognize in the leader young Gregg. The other man was a stranger, an older man, with a grizzled beard, and tall and stooping figure.
“Hello Joe,” called the ranger, “you’re astir early!”
The youth’s fat face remained imperturbable, but his eyes betrayed uneasiness. “Yes, it’s a long pull into town.”
“Been hunting?” queried the ranger, still with cheery, polite interest.
“Oh no; just visiting one of my sheep-camps.”
Cavanagh’s voice was a little less suave. “Not on this creek,” he declared. “I moved your herder last week.” He walked forward. “That’s a heavy load for a short trip to a sheep-camp.” He put his hand on the pack. “I guess you’ll have to open this, for I heard two shots yesterday morning up where that flock of mountain-sheep is running, and, furthermore, I can see blood-stains on this saddle-blanket.”
Neither of the men made answer, but the old man turned an inquiring look at his young leader.
The ranger flung his next sentence out like the lash of a whip. “Open this sack or I cut the ropes!”