“I agree to that,” said Walter.
“I suppose the horse is sound?” he said inquiringly.
“Sound as a die! Don't you take no trouble about that. It goes to my heart to give her up. Good-by, old gal!”
Walter touched the horse lightly with his whip, and she bounded forward. After a few miles he reached a town of good size. Riding along the main street his attention was drawn to a printed notice in front of a store. It read thus:
“HORSE STOLEN!
“Stolen from the subscriber, on the evening of the twenty-fifth, a roan mare, eight years old and sixteen hands high, with a white mark between the eyes. Answers to the name of Bess. Whoever will return her to the subscriber, or give information that will lead to her recovery, will receive a suitable reward.
“COLONEL RICHARD OWEN, Shelby.”
A terrible suspicion entered Walter's mind. He recognized the white mark. Then he called “Bess.” The mare half turned her head and whinnied.