For Benton was riding the prisoner’s white horse and also wearing that gentleman’s chaps, coat, hat, and white handkerchief.
Ellis grinned. “They’re expaictin’ Shorty,” he said. “Mustn’t disappoint ’em.”
Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along the trail leading to Fish Creek. The evening shadows began to close in, but they dawdled, keeping a wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for voices carry far over the range on still nights.
“Sergeant,” said Gallagher casually, during their progress. “’Member, it ain’t that I’m grudgin’ givin’ yu’ this bit o’ help but, d’yu’ know, I’ve often thort it kinder queer-like as yu’ don’t get ’em to give yu’ another man to help yu’ out here?”
Ellis did not reply immediately. “I could,” he said presently. “But what’d be th’ use? They’d most likely send me along some gentlemanly young ‘Percy,’ just fresh up from Regina, who didn’t know his mouth from a hole in th’ ground. It ain’t no child’s play—handlin’ th’ crooked stock cases in a district like this. A man’s got to be onto his job right from th’ drop o’ th’ hat. Look how they put it over Williamson—what! He should never have come here. He should have stayed with that staff job in th’ Q.M.’s store ... never did nothin’ else since he’s bin in th’ Force. They saddled me with a peach once, I mind—when I was stationed at Goddard. He was a nice, well-meanin’ kid, all right, but all th’ same he queered two o’ th’ best cases I’ve ever had,” he ended bitterly.
They rode side by side in silence awhile.
“Yu’ heeled?” inquired the Sergeant quietly. And, as the other nodded, and tapped his hip significantly: “Mind, though, I ain’t anxious to have any shootin’ on this business, unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want no cursed chasin’ in th’ dark, either, with th’ chances o’ th’ hawsses comin’ down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around. I ain’t just figured how I’m a-goin’ to get ’em yet! Can’t tell, this stage o’ th’ game. It’ll most likely have to be somethin’ almighty sudden, yu’ can take yore oath o’ that!”
Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of brush that fringed the west side of Tucker’s pasture, they struck in along the old cow trail and dismounting about thirty yards from the gate, still within the shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and awaited events.
A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through a thick rift of clouds and, as their eyes became accustomed to the curious gray light that flooded everything around, objects within a certain radius stood out with surprising clearness.
“Lord!” said the policeman in a low undertone, “I wish we could smoke. ’Twon’t do to chance strikin’ a match, though. Reckon they’ll foller th’ fence-line from th’ sou’west angle when they do come. Good job Tucker ain’t got no dogs to start in yappin’. Guess he’s drunk an’ sleepin’ by now. Good job, too, he don’t know no more’n he does. He’d be a-runnin’ around all worked up like a flea in a mitt, with that old Mauser o’ his, an’ shootin’ at th’ moon.”