"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me Windy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know all 'bout that later."
His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air, indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg—and found what they sought for.
For there—where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the "coronet"—was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the shoe and glanced at his note-book.
Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him tie it up again.
Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look, Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimly into the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh, an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now—whin Larry Blake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrel o' Windy's still in th' stable—or not?"
"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when
Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."
Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes! enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis a foine sort av town-constable yez are!"
Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here 'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do—jes' t' see 'f everythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear—'cause I 'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th' garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'damned hobo sneakin' round. He was gettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up inta th' loft an'—I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock up fur that."
Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'—easy. Mighty long toime since yuh've bin able tu dhrag yeh're guts up that ladder—lit alone squeege thru' th' thrap-dhure. Bet Lanky does all th' chorin'." He glanced around him impatiently, "But this here's all talk—it don't lead nowheres. Hullo! this is Gully's team, ain't it?" He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.
"Yes!" said Lee, "he pulled in las' night t' catch th' nine-thirty down t' Calgary. He ain't back yet."