"Yes, yes!" they answered eagerly. "It is true—true!"
"Come 'long outside," said Martin to the Inspector, with as much excitement as it was possible for him to show at any time.
"That feller," Martin declared very impressively, "He think you lie, Sergeant. He think you take him up, not for horse-steal—just bluff, that—though he say it true he steal horses, but for murder Constable Chester last spring. An' he say—all say—did not murder Chester. 'You no hang me if I tell who did it?' he ask. 'No hang you,' I say. 'Then,' he say, 'I tell you. Wild Horse kill him!'"
III
A fortnight elapsed before Hector was able to attempt the arrest of Wild Horse. The Indian had taken alarm with the apprehension of the horse-thieves and had left the reserve. Sooner or later, Hector knew, he would return, thinking the storm blown over. It behooved the Police to be ready to take him when that time came. They placed the reserve under the observation of Liver-eating John, a half-breed scout, whose orders were immediately to report to Hector any news concerning the whereabouts of Wild Horse.
So the fortnight dragged by. Then, in great haste, one afternoon, came Liver-eating John.
"Wild Horse, he sneak in 'bout noon," he told Hector. "Me see um—self. He be there p'raps two days. Hide in brother's lodge. Go, get him, quick!"
Within fifteen minutes, Hector and his men were on the trail.
Among those who had recently committed themselves to the baby business of ranching in Western Canada was Colonel Stern, a veteran of the Indian Mutiny and several other wars. Failing fortunes had driven him from the Army to seek a livelihood south of Fort Macleod. But, though his military service had ceased, his interest in all wearers of the Queen's uniform was as bright as ever. He kept open house for all ranks of the Police and it was an understood thing that any redcoat passing that way, on duty or otherwise, was to stop off at Colonel Stern's ranch. As the place stood on the edge of the reserve wherein Wild Horse was lurking, Hector headed for Colonel Stern's as a matter of course.
The Colonel—tall, gray-headed, hook-nosed, weather-beaten, with bushy brows, a heavy military moustache and eyes like rapiers—met them at the door as they loped into the yard at dusk, smiling a welcome and holding out his hand.