answer George dropped a small discharged shell into the other's
outstretched palm. The sergeant made swift examination. A shocking
blasphemy escaped him, and for an instant he jerked back his arm as if to
fling the article away, then, recovering himself with an effort, he
handed it to Yorke, who peered in turn.

The latter made a wry face. "Hell!" he ejaculated disgustedly, "it's a
'Savage' this--thirty-two at that!" He lowered his voice. "The other
was a thirty-eight Luger--what?"

"Time an' agin," Slavin was declaiming in impotent rage and with upraised
fist,--"Time an' ag'in--have we shtruck a lead on this blasted case--on'y
tu find ut peter out agin. . . . Oh! how long, O Lord? how long? . . ."

MacDavid stopped in turn. "Here's th' other two, Sarjint," he said.
Slavin dropped the shells into his pocket and for a space he remained in
deep thought. Then he turned to the trader.

"Morley," he said quietly, "yu're not a talker, I know,
but--anyways! . . . I ask ye now . . . ye'll oblige me by shpakin' av
this tu no man--yet awhiles. . . . I have me raysons--onnershtand?"

The eyes of the two men met, and question and answer were silently
exchanged in that one significant look.

MacDavid nodded brief acquiescence to the others request. "Aye!" he
replied reflectively, "I think I do--now. . . ."

The sergeant turned to his men. "Come on, bhoy!" he said. "Let's beat
ut home. I'm gettin' hungry."

They bid the trader adieu, and trudged away in the direction of the
detachment. They had covered some quarter of a mile in silence when
Slavin, who was in the lead, suddenly halted and whirled on his
subordinates with a mirthless laugh.

"Windy Moran, begod!" he burst out, "mind fwhat he said that day 'bout
Gully an' that dep'ty sheriff bizness? . . . not so----'Windy' afther
all, I'm thinkin', eh?"

For some few seconds they stared at him, aghast. They had forgotten
Moran.

"Say, Burke, though?" ejaculated Yorke incredulously. "Good God! somehow
the thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . .
the other--Gully!--a J.P.--a man of his class and standing! . . . Why!
whatever motive--"

"He may have two guns," broke in Redmond.

"Eyah," agreed Slavin, grimly, "he may. . . . A Luger's a mighty
diff'runt kind av a gun tu other authomatics . . . an' th' man that shot
Larry Blake ain't likely tu be fule enough tu risk packin' ut around--for
a chance tu thrip um up some day."