“And rode a little sorrel pony, with a sheepskin for a saddle,” added the colonel. “That was Lish, the Wolfer. I know him. Where is he now?”
“In the village, probably. I judge so, from the fact that, when I met him, he carried a couple of empty sacks across his pony’s neck. I thought he was going after supplies.”
“Where did you find his companion?”
“In camp, on the banks of the brook that runs through the ravine, about——”
“Orderly, tell Lieutenant Fitch I want to see him!” shouted the colonel.
Oscar was very much surprised at this unceremonious interruption, and he was still more surprised, and not a little alarmed, besides, when the lieutenant—who happened to be close at hand—entered the room in haste, and was thus addressed by his superior:
“Mr. Fitch,” said the colonel, “Lish, the Wolfer, has been in Julesburg. How long ago was it you met him?” he added, turning to Oscar.
“About two hours, I should say.”
“Well, he has had plenty of time to get drunk. Go and find him, Mr. Fitch, and listen to what he has to say. When he is in his cups, he is like an Indian in the war-dance—much given to boasting of his valorous deeds. If he says anything relating to that affair of last summer, take him into custody at once, and then go up and arrest his companion, whom you will find on the banks of that little trout-stream we fished in last summer. If one had a hand in it, the other did, too, and so we must pull them both.”
Having received his instructions, the lieutenant hurried from the room, while Oscar sank helplessly back in his chair, almost overcome with bewilderment and alarm.