For awhile the trio cogitated in silence; each man striving desperately to arrive at some logical solution to the extraordinary problem that now faced them.
"Bhoys!" said Slavin presently, "there's no doubt there is . . . somethin' damnably wrong 'bout all this. But, all th' same, fact remains, ye cannot shtart in makin' th' Force a laughin' stock by charrgin' a man av Gully's position wid murdher—widout mighty shtrong evidence tu back ut. An' sizin' things up—fwhat have we got, afther all, . . . right now . . . tu shwear out a warrant on? . . . Nothin', really, 'cept that he's shown us he's a bad man wid a gun! A damned bad break that was, tho', an' I'll bet he's sorry for that same, tu. Mind how he kept on thravellin', widout comin' back tu shpake wid us?"
He shook his head slowly, in sinister fashion, and stared at their troubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, with lowered voice, "honest tu God, in me own mind I du believe he is th' man that done ut." He paused—"but provin' ut's a diff'runt matther. We must foller this up an' get some shtronger evidence yet—behfure we make th' break."
Suddenly he uttered a hollow chuckle. "Kilbride!" he ejaculated. "Mind his josh that day—'bout it might be me, or Gully?—an how Gully laughed, tu, wid th' hand of um like this?"
Napoleonic fashion he thrust his huge fist between the buttons of his stable-jacket.
"Yes, by gad!" said Yorke reflectively. "I sure do, now. And I'll bet he had his right hand on his gun, too! Force of habit, I guess, if he's an ex-deputy-sheriff. From what little he's dropped he's sure knocked around some, I know. Hard to say where, and what the beggar hasn't been in his time. This accounts for him being so blooming close about the Western States. It's always struck me as being queer, that, because, say, look at the slick way he rides and ropes! He's never picked that up in five years over on this Side—and that's all he claims he's been in Canada."
"Besides" chimed in Redmond, eagerly, "that yarn of his about that hobo swiping his dough, Sergeant! 'Frame-up,' p'raps, . . . gave it to him and told him to beat it? . . ."
"Aw, rot!" said Yorke, disgustedly. He sniffed, with his peculiar mannerism, "that's dime-novel stuff, Red. D'ye think he'd be fool enough to risk that, with the chances of the fellow being picked up any minute and squealing on him?" He was silent a moment. "Rum thing, though," he murmured, "the way that hobo did beat us to it."
"'Some lokil man,' sez Kilbride," remarked Slavin musingly. "Just th' last one ye'd think av suspectin'. An' Gully, begod, sittin' right there! . . . talk 'bout nerve! . . ."
"But, good heavens!" burst out Yorke. "Whoever would have suspected him?" He laughed a trifle bitterly. "It's all very well for us to turn round now and say 'what fools we've been,' and all that. If we'd have been the smart, 'never-make-a-mistake' Alecks, like we're depicted in books, why, of course we'd have 'deducted' this right-away, I suppose? Oh, Ichabod! Ichabod! An Englishman, too, by gad! I'll forswear my nationality."