“Bailey has been hurt,” came the voice of Markham. “Every horse in the herd has been driven off by thieves—and they even took Bailey’s mount with the rest. Biggest outrage that ever happened in these parts! I’d like to know what the blamed country is coming to!”
The blur lifted from before Peters’ eyes. He saw Bailey, his face twisted with pain, lying on a couch. Mrs. Morton bent over him, bathing a wounded shoulder from a basin of hot water. Her husband was walking up and down, fuming and sputtering. Markham stood beside the couch, looking down at the foreman with a queer expression on his face. Hesther, all excited, was removing her wraps with shaking hands.
“Horses stolen!” gasped Peters, dazed by the weird calamity. “How could it happen? Is Bailey badly hurt?”
“Don’t stand there gawping!” fussed Morton. “Something has got to be done, and it’s up to you and Markham to do it. A gang of scoundrels from across the line made off with the stock; and it’s been no more than three hours since it happened. Take my team and get to Roscommon. The sheriff’s got to be notified. Bailey says the thieves are making for the north, and if you and Markham are quick a posse can get between the gang and the boundary line. For heaven’s sake, Peters, wake up!”
Peters shook himself, put down the lantern, and came to the side of the couch.
“Why don’t Markham wake up?” he asked. “Hasn’t he suggested anything yet?”
“Nothing to suggest,” Markham answered, flashing a sharp look at Peters. “It’s twenty miles to Roscommon, and no chance of getting there ahead of the thieves and the stolen stock. The only animals we can put our hands on are the two that brought us from Devil’s Lake, and they are done up. You know that, Peters.”
“What about using skates or skis?” inquired Peters. “By thunder, there is a way of getting to Roscommon in time to help the sheriff head off the stolen stock!”