The man turned on him swiftly. “Ah—Tresler,” he said.
Then he bent over the bed, and his hands groped over the dead man’s body till they came into contact with the congealing blood round the wound in his stomach.
With a movement of repulsion he drew back sharply. “He’s not dead?” he questioned, with a queer eagerness, turning round to those about him.
“Yes, he is dead,” replied Tresler, with unintentional solemnity.
“Who—who did it?”
The question came in a tense voice, sharper and more eagerly than the preceding one.
“Anton,” chorused the men, as though finding relief from their long silence in the announcement. The crime was even secondary to the personality of the culprit with them. Anton’s name was uppermost in their minds, and so they spoke it readily.
“Anton? And where is he? Have you got him?”
The rancher had turned about, and addressed himself generally.
“Anton has made off with one of your horses,” said Tresler. “I tried to get him, but he had too much start for me. I was on foot.”