“Why are you running and why did you fire? Understand you are a trespasser here, and I am going to turn you over to the constable.”
“There was a sheep-stealer—yes? He is yonder by the pens—and we had some little fighting; but he is not dead—no?”
At that moment Claiborne’s eyes caught sight of a burly figure rising and threshing about by the broken pen door.
“That is the sheep-stealer,” said Oscar. “We shall catch him—yes?”
Zmai peered toward them uncertainly for a moment; then turned abruptly and ran toward the road. Oscar started to cut off his retreat, but Claiborne caught the sergeant by the shoulder and flung him back.
“One of you at a time! They can turn the hounds on the other rascal. What’s that you have there? Give it to me—quick!”
“It’s a piece of wool—”
But Claiborne snatched the paper from Oscar’s hand, and commanded the man to march ahead of him to the house. So over the meadow and through the pergola they went, across the veranda and into the library. The power of army discipline was upon Oscar; if Claiborne had not been an officer he would have run for it in the garden. As it was, he was taxing his wits to find some way out of his predicament. He had not the slightest idea as to what the paper might be. He had risked his life to secure it, and now the crumpled, blood-stained paper had been taken away from him by a person whom it could not interest in any way whatever.
He blinked under Claiborne’s sharp scrutiny as they faced each other in the library.
“You are the man who brought a horse back to our stable an hour ago.”