“Why, yes,” said Dr. Brady. “Corporal Rand. The name is familiar.”
“Well,” trembled Dick, “I have a terrible suspicion that those boots and that revolver belong to him.”
It was Brady’s turn to become grave.
“And you believe that he——”
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dick filled in the pause. “It looks bad. They might have killed him. They——”
He broke off, overcome by such a probability.
“You see, doctor,” he resumed, “Corporal Rand wouldn’t carry an extra pair of boots and probably not an extra revolver along with him. Just remember that. If the Indian didn’t kill him, something or someone else did. He might have taken those things off Rand’s dead body. Somehow, I feel that I ought to go back and question him—make him talk. I don’t like the looks of this.”
They were now within a short distance of their own party, and an idea suddenly occurred to Dick.
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get Toma to go with me. He speaks the Indian language more fluently. The two of us will go over there armed and compel that rascal to confess. And we won’t come back either until——”
Dr. Brady interrupted him. Dr. Brady had seized him by the shoulders and was staring into his face, his eyes wide with excitement. Then he swung the younger man in front of him, released him, and with one trembling hand pointed in the direction of their camp.