“Yes, by gum!” exclaimed Mr. Cadwaller. “And we want them—eh—eh—consarned redskin thieves strung up.”
“You say you have seen the stolen horses on the Blood reserve, Mr. Raimes?” enquired the Commissioner.
Mr. Raimes, who was industriously chewing a quid of tobacco, ejected, with a fine sense of propriety and with great skill and accuracy, a stream of tobacco juice out of the door before he answered.
“I seen 'em.”
“When did you lose your horses?”
Mr. Raimes considered the matter for some moments, chewing energetically the while, then, having delivered himself with the same delicacy and skill as before of his surplus tobacco juice, made laconic reply:
“Seventeen, no, eighteen days ago.”
“Did you follow the trail immediately yourselves?”
“No, Jim Eberts.”
“Jim Eberts?”