“No; but he ordered them done. He’s the person responsible.”
“Unfortunately, that may be rather hard to prove. It all depends upon what attitude the other outlaws take.”
The forenoon was long and tedious. Lines of worry began to crease the corporal’s forehead. Dick was driven to the verge of desperation. The pack-train had not yet returned. Sitting in front of the campfire, opposite the sailor and Nichols, with Rand pacing nervously back and forth behind him, Dick pictured a hundred imaginary perils and disasters that had befallen Toma. Sometimes he saw him languishing in a dark, foul room, suffering all the tortures of imprisonment; and again he visualized a limp, lifeless form, crumpled in the snow in the depth of some forest solitude, around him the leering, grinning faces of the outlaws. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Dick had become almost desperate. He rose to his feet and drew the corporal aside.
“I can’t endure this much longer. Let’s do something.”
The policeman took the younger man’s arm affectionately.
“What would you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Dick.
“There is only one thing that I can propose—and you may not like that.”
“What is it?”
“You can stay here and watch these two vultures while I go out and try to find Toma.”