The sergeant dismissed his unintentional eavesdropping with a shrug and turned to the deputy.
"Out on the trail this morning you seemed to think you might want me later. You'll know now where to find me—Room number twelve."
"Forget this a.m., old topper. I was maybe a little mite excited out there at the scene of the crime. There ain't sech a lot of difference between deputy sheriffs and mounted sergeants. It might-a been me lying there deader than dead. Your happening along looked sort of queer. I'm seeing straighter now. You're welcome to Gold and I hope you get what you come for."
"You'll find me strong for law and order," Seymour replied.
This seemed to invite Hardley to real confidences. Beckoning Seymour from the doorway, he edged his chair closer to the cot on which Brewster reclined in his stockinged feet.
"Don't mind telling you two in confidence," he leaned forward and whispered, "that I'm in a fair way to nabbing the two who robbed the stage and killed Tabor and Seymour. Maybe I ain't seemed to be doing much, but I've got clews to burn already."
"You have?" cried Brewster, hunching himself into a sitting position on the cot.
Hardley nodded assuredly. "There were two of them in the bush lying for the sergeant this morning. One had a Winchester 30-30 and used it to kill Seymour. One rode a horse that was shod in front but plain behind." He paused, evidently, from his expression, to collect the encomiums he considered his due.
"Important if true, Sam," Brewster observed.
"Quick work," admitted the Mountie, honestly surprised; his hand was in the trousers pocket that held the cartridge case picked up that morning. "How in the world did you learn all that?"