"Well," explained Flett, "this is the kind of thing Little Ax is likely to have a hand in, and he's the tallest buck in the crowd. I'll stick to the team until we come across somebody who knows its owner. The first thing we have to do is to find that case of liquor."
Half an hour later the teamster came back carrying it, and set it down before the constable with a grin.
"Guess it's your duty to see what's in these bottles," he remarked.
"Shall I get one out?"
"You needn't; I've a pretty good idea," answered Flett; adding meaningly, "besides, it's the kind of stuff a white man can't drink." Then he turned to George. "I'd better take you home. You look kind of shaky."
"What about my horse?" George asked.
"Guess he's made for home," said the teamster. "I struck his trail, and it led right out of the woods."
George got into the wagon with some trouble, and the teamster rode beside it when they set off.
"You haven't much to put before a court," he said to Flett.
"No," the constable replied thoughtfully. "I'm not sure our people will take this matter up; anyway, it looks as if we could only fix it on the Indians. This is what comes of you folks fooling things, instead of leaving them to us."
"The police certainly like a conviction," rejoined the teamster, grinning. "They feel real bad when the court lets a fellow off; seem to think that's their business. Guess it's why a few of their prisoners escape."