"I have called to say," remarked Jack as calmly as he could, though his heart was beating fast, "that there is a horse in your pasture which belongs to me."
The man straightened his bent back, and looked blackly at the speaker, while the grease dripped from the end of the stick.
"A hoss in my pastur' that belongs to you! What do ye mean by that?"
"Perhaps you haven't seen this handbill?" And Jack took the printed description of Snowfoot from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the astonished Peakslow.
THE AMIABLE MR. PEAKSLOW.
"'Twenty dollars reward,'" he read. "'Stolen from the owner—a light, reddish roan hoss—white forefeet—scar low down on the near side, jest behind the shoulder—smaller scar on the off hip.' What's the meanin' of all this?" he said, glancing at Jack.