Bob's glance was a little keener. "Huh!" he said scornfully, "the kid's from the cities and can't read tracks. All the same, somebody shot Douglas, and if the police can't fix it on Leyland, they'll get after me."
"I don't see where I can help. For one thing, Mr. Leyland is my friend. Then all I can state is, I didn't see you carry a gun. On the whole, I don't think the police have much grounds to bother you."
"Well, I don't take no chances; the police would sooner I was for it. They can't claim Leyland meant to kill the warden, but they might claim I did. Gimme a hundred dollars and I'll quit."
Stannard smiled. "I have not got ten dollars; I gave Jimmy my wallet. He's your employer."
"Then, if I run up against Mr. Leyland, I'll know he carries a wad and I guess I can persuade him to see me out," said Bob. "Now I'm going to take all the grub I want. So long!"
He went off and Stannard shrugged; but a few moments afterwards he rested his back against the wall and shut his eyes, as if he were tired. By and by Simpson returned and met Bob near the door. Bob carried a big pack, a cartridge belt, and a rifle.
"Hello!" said Simpson. "Another for the woods? Well, you got to drop that pack. You're not going."
"You make me tired. My gun's not broke," Bob rejoined and shoved the muzzle against Simpson's chest. "Get inside, sonny. Get in quick!"
The Royal North-West Police do not enlist slack-nerved men and Simpson's pluck was good. For all that, he was lightly built and was hurt, while Bob was big and muscular. When Simpson seized the rifle barrel Bob pushed hard on the butt. The trooper staggered back, struck the doorpost, and plunged into the house. Bob laughed.
"Your job's to help cure your partner. Maybe he knows who shot him," he remarked, and started across the clearing.