n other people's cattle!
But--blarney me sowl! Ryan sure is a bad man tu run up agin when he's
actin' for th' defence."

The trio had just returned from a Supreme Court sitting where they had
been handling their various cases. It was a gloriously sunny day in
June. A wet spring, succeeded by a spell of hot weather, had transformed
the range into a rolling expanse of green, over which meandered bunches
of horses and cattle, their sleek hides and well-rounded bodies
proclaiming abundant assimilation of nourishing pasture.

To men who for the past week had of necessity been confined within the
stifling atmosphere of a crowded court-room, their present surroundings
appealed as especially restful and exhilarating. During their absence
their horses had been enjoying the luxury of a turn-out in the fenced
pasture at the rear of the detachment, where there was good feed and a
spring.

The murder of Larry Blake the previous winter still remained a baffling
mystery. Locally it had proved, as such occurrences usually do, merely a
proverbial nine days wonder. Long since, in the stress and interest of
current events, it had faded more or less from the minds of all men,
excepting the Mounted Police, who, though saying little concerning it,
still kept keenly on the alert for any possible clue. Equally mystifying
was the uncanny disappearance of the hobo--Drinkwater. So far that
individual had succeeded in eluding apprehension, although minute
descriptions of him had been circulated broadcast to police agencies
throughout Canada and the United States.

"Eyah!" Sergeant Slavin was wont to remark sagely: "'Tis an ould saying
bhoys--'Murdher will out'--we'll sure dhrop onto it sooner or lather, an'
thin belike we'll get th' surprise av our lives--for I firmly believe, as
Kilbride said--'t'will prove tu be some lokil man who had a grudge agin'
pore Larry for somethin' or another. So--just kape on quietly
watchin'--an' listh'nin, an' we'll nail that fella yet."

Just now that worthy was surveying his subordinates with a care-free
smile of bonhomie. "Guess we'll dhrop inta th' shtore on our way up"
suggested he, "see'f there's any mail, an' have a yarn wid ould MacDavid."

Half way up the long, winding, graded trail that led to the detachment,
the trio turned into another trail which traversed it at this point.
Following this for some few hundred yards westward they reached the
substantial abode of Morley MacDavid, who was, a