“Not another one, corporal. I have only the two. One is mine and the other belongs to my son, Frederick. But where is your own horse, corporal?”
Thus reminded of his loss, Rand’s face became grim again.
“They shot it. Back at Frenchie’s road-house. That’s why I’ve come on foot.”
“And you’re almost crippled,” said Meade, who had observed the policeman’s limp.
“I can manage somehow.”
“Not until you’ve doctored up those feet,” Meade declared kindly.
Rand flung himself down in an easy chair, motioning to Toma also to be seated.
“You’d better rest while you can, Toma. We’ll go on again in a few minutes.”
Meade had grown thoughtful.
“I’ve an idea,” he announced at length, “that I can get two horses for you over at Bonner’s Lake from a half-breed there. This man has a herd of ponies he keeps for Spring and Autumn freighting. They’re feeding on the range now and I’m sure he’ll accommodate me.”