A DAY IN THE MACLEOD BARRACKS
“What's this, Sergeant Crisp?” The Commissioner, a tall, slight, and soldier-like man, keen-eyed and brisk of speech, rapped out his words like a man intent on business.
“One of a whiskey gang, Sir. Dick Raven's, I suspect.”
“And the charge?”
“Whiskey trading, theft, and murder.”
The Commissioner's face grew grave.
“Murder? Where did you find him?”
“Kootenay trail, Sir. Got wind of him at Calgary, followed up the clue past Morleyville, then along the Kootenay trail. A blizzard came on and we feared we had lost them. We fell in with a band of Stony Indians, found that the band had been robbed and two of their number murdered.”
“Two murdered?” The Commissioner's voice was stern.
“Yes, Sir. Shot down in cold blood. We have the testimony of an eye witness. We followed the trail and came upon two of them. My horse was shot. One of them escaped; this man we captured.”