“By Jove! Is that so? I had forgotten,” said Cameron, turning to study the calendar on the wall, a gorgeous work of art produced out of the surplus revenues of a Life Insurance Company. “Let's see,” he calculated. “This week? Three days will take us in. We are still all right. We have five. That gives us two days clear for this job. I feel like making this try, Mandy,” he continued earnestly. “We have this chap practically within our grasp. He will be off guard. The Piegans are not yet worked up to the point of resistance. Ten days from now our man may be we can't tell where.”
Mandy remained silent. The ritual of her sacrifice was not yet complete.
“I think you are right, Allan,” at length she said slowly with a twisted smile. “I'm afraid you are right. It's hard not to be in it, though. But,” she added, as if moved by a sudden thought, “I may be in it yet.”
“You will certainly be with us in spirit, Mandy,” he replied, patting the firm brown hand that lay upon the table.
“Yes, truly, and in our hearts,” added the Inspector with a bow.
But Mandy made no reply. Already she was turning over in her mind a half-formed plan which she had no intention of sharing with these men, who, after the manner of their kind, would doubtless block it.
Early morning found Cameron and the Inspector on the trail toward the Piegan Reserve, riding easily, for they knew not what lay before them nor what demand they might have to make upon their horses that day. The Inspector rode a strongly built, stocky horse of no great speed but good for an all-day run. Cameron's horse was a broncho, an unlovely brute, awkward and ginger-colored—his name was Ginger—sad-eyed and wicked-looking, but short-coupled and with flat, rangy legs that promised speed. For his sad-eyed, awkward broncho Cameron professed a deep affection and defended him stoutly against the Inspector's jibes.
“You can't kill him,” he declared. “He'll go till he drops, and then twelve miles more. He isn't beautiful to look at and his manners are nothing to boast of, but he will hang upon the fence the handsome skin of that cob of yours.”
When still five or six miles from camp they separated.
“The old boy may, of course, be gone,” said the Inspector as he was parting from his friend. “By Superintendent Strong's report he seems to be continually on the move.”