There was a dominant, compelling note in the voice of Peters. It was so unexpected in its assertiveness that every one in the room was startled. His washed-out blue eyes fenced aggressively with the snapping black eyes of Markham.
“Skates or skis!” repeated Markham, his upper lip curling. “Why, it’s all of thirty miles to Roscommon, if you follow the crooks o’ the river! And how much would you figure it by skis, if you crossed Bear Butte instead of going around it? Talk sense, if you know how, Nix! Don’t forget the fellows who rustled our stock have three hours the lead.”
“How far will three hours of driving in this snow get the stolen herd?” returned Peters. “The thieves will have a tough job of it. They——”
Bailey twisted his flushed face from under the ministering hands of Mrs. Morton. “The varmints are goin’ north by the Long Knife Dry Wash,” he said, his voice shaking with the pain of his wound. “That’s only three miles west of Roscommon. If you boys could get word to the sheriff somehow, I reckon he might head off the raiders with a posse. But if you do anything, you’ll have to do it quick. Porter,” and his eyes swerved to Markham, “I’m lookin’ to you—Uncle Si Goddard is lookin’ to you. Nigh on to five thousand dollars’ wuth of horses are being pushed to’rds the border, and here I’m helpless to do a thing.”
“It don’t seem possible to do a thing, Reece,” returned Markham. “If we could round up a crowd of men in short order, and take after the thieves on fresh horses, like enough we might overhaul ’em. But where’s the riding stock? Why, Morton’s nearest neighbor is ten miles away!”
Peters flashed a disapproving glance at Markham, pulled off his bearskin gloves, and slumped down in a chair by the stove. From the pockets of his overcoat he took his skates, also a new strap he had secured in Devil’s Lake City. Quickly he replaced the broken strap with the new one.
“You going to try and get to Roscommon by river, Nix?” Morton inquired.
“I figure the chances are better that way than going over Bear Butte on skis,” Peters answered. “The river’s clean of snow, and mostly the ice is like a lookin’-glass. I’m going to do my best to get word to the sheriff and to start a Roscommon doctor this way to look after Bailey.”
“You’re locoed!” growled Markham. “It s all right to get a doctor for Reese, here, but there ain’t a chance to save the stock this side of the line. Let the raiders get it across the boundary, and then take the matter up with the Canadian Mounted Police. That’s my advice.”
“If you wait till the stock is out of this country,” put in the rancher, “there won’t be a chance.”