George laughed.
"He's too venturesome now and then, but he has been a little spoiled. I've an idea that this affair is likely to be permanent. He has shown a keen interest in the price of land and the finances of farming, which struck me as having its meaning."
They had now nearly reached the bluff and a horseman in khaki uniform rode out of it to meet them.
"I've been over to your place," he said to George, when he had dismounted. "I was sent to show you a photograph and ask if you can recognize anybody in it?"
He untied a packet and George studied the picture handed him. It showed the rutted main street of a little western town, with the sunlight on a row of wooden buildings. In the distance a band of cattle were being driven forward by two mounted men; nearer at hand a few wagons stood outside a livery stable; and in the foreground three or four figures occupied the veranda of a frame hotel. The ease of their attitudes suggested that they did not know they were being photographed, and their faces were distinct. George looked triumphantly excited and unhesitatingly laid a finger on one face.
"This is the man that drove off Mr. Grant's Percheron and stabbed my horse."
The trooper produced a thin piece of card and a small reading-glass.
"Take another look through this; it came along with the photograph.
Now, would you be willing to swear to him?"
"I'll be glad to do so, if I have the chance. Shall I put a mark against the fellow?"
"Not on that!" The trooper handed George the card, which proved to be a carefully drawn key-plan of the photograph, with the figures outlined. "You can mark this one."