Slavin beckoned to Redmond and, much to that young gentleman's chagrin, bade him hold the lines of the restless team, while he (Slavin), along with Yorke and Gully, started forwards trailing the footprints. Arriving at the river's edge they slid down the bank and followed the tracks over the snow-covered ice to the centre of the river. Here was open water for some distance; the powerful current at this point keeping open a ten-foot wide steaming fissure. The tracks hugged its edge to a point about four hundred yards westward, where the fissure closed up again and enabled them to cross to the opposite bank. Clambering up this their quest led them across a long stretch of comparatively level ground to the fenced-in railway-track.
Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line. At the foot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly and uttered an oath. Stooping down he picked up something and, turning round to his companions exhibited his find. It was a small, black-leather bill-folder—empty.
Gully regarded his lost property with smouldering eyes, and he uttered a ghastly imprecation. "Yes, that's it," he said simply, "beggar's boned the bills and chucked this away for fear of incriminating evidence—in case he was nabbed again, I suppose. The bills were mostly in fives and tens—Standard Bank—I remember."
They climbed up onto the track to determine whether the foot-prints turned east or west; but further quest here proved useless, on account of its being a snow-beaten section-hand trail.
Slavin balked again, swore in fluent and horrible fashion. For a space he remained in brooding thought, then he turned abruptly to his companions.
"Come on," he jerked out savagely, "let's get back."
In silence they retraced their steps and eventually reached their horses.
Here the sergeant issued curt orders to his men.
"'Tis onlikely th' shtiff can have got very far away—in th' toime Mr. Gully tells us," he said, "an' he cannot shtay out in th' opin for long this weather. Get yu're harses over th' ice, bhoys, an' make th' thrack. Ye'll find an' openin' in th' fence somewheres. Thin shplit, an' hug th' line—west, yu', Yorkey—as far as Coalmore—yu', Ridmond—back tu Cow Run. Yez know fwhat tu du. Pass up nothin'—culverts, bridges, section-huts—anywhere's th' shtiff may be hidin'. If yez du not dhrop onto um betune thim tu places—shtay fwhere yez are an' search all freights. 'Phone th' agent at Davidsburg if yez want tu get me. I'm away from there now—to wire east an' west. Thin—I'm goin' tu ride freight awhile, up an' down th' thrack. I can get Clem Wilson tu luk afther T an' B. We must get this man, bhoys."
"Look here, Sergeant," broke in Gully good-naturedly, "as this is partly on my account I feel it's up to me to try and do what little I can do to help you in this case. There's not much doing at the ranch just now, so, if you've no objection, I'll put Silver along with your team and come with you. As you say—we've simply got to get this fellow, somehow."
"Thank ye, Mr. Gully," responded Slavin gratefully, "betune th' bunch av us we shud nail th' shtiff all right."