The prisoner took a wallet from his pocket and passed it across. “I guess there’s no use in me objecting. You’ll find them there,” he said.
“Count them,” said Grant to the other man. “Two of you look over his shoulder and tell me if he’s right.”
It took some little time, for the man passed the roll of bills to a comrade, who, after turning them over, replaced them in the wallet.
“Yes, that’s right, boys; it’s quite plain, even if we hadn’t followed up his trail. Those dollars and documents were handed Quilter.”
Grant touched Breckenridge. “Get up and ride,” he said. “They’ll send us six men from each of the two committees. We’ll be waiting for them at Boston’s when they get there. Now, there’s just another thing. Look at the magazine of that fellow’s rifle.”
A man took up the rifle, and snapped out the cartridges into his hand. “Usual 44 Winchester. One of them gone,” he said. “He wouldn’t have started out after Quilter without his magazine full.”
The man rubbed the fringe of his deerskin jacket upon the muzzle, and then held it up by the lantern where the rest could see the smear of the fouling upon it.
“I guess that’s convincing, but we’ll bring the rifle along,” he said.
Grant nodded and turned to the prisoner as a man led up a horse. “Get up,” he said. “You’ll have a fair trial, but if you have any defence to make you had better think it over. You’ll walk back to Hanson’s, Jake.”
The prisoner mounted, and they slowly rode away into the darkness which, now the moon had sunk, preceded the coming day.