For awhile the trio cogitated in silence; each man striving desperately
to arrive at some logical solution to the extraordinary problem that now
faced them.

"Bhoys!" said Slavin presently, "there's no doubt there is . . .
somethin' damnably wrong 'bout all this. But, all th' same, fact
remains, ye cannot shtart in makin' th' Force a laughin' stock by
charrgin' a man av Gully's position wid murdher--widout mighty shtrong
evidence tu back ut. An' sizin' things up--fwhat have we got, afther
all, . . . right now . . . tu shwear out a warrant on? . . . Nothin',
really, 'cept that he's shown us he's a bad man wid a gun! A damned bad
break that was, tho', an' I'll bet he's sorry for that same, tu. Mind
how he kept on thravellin', widout comin' back tu shpake wid us?"

He shook his head slowly, in sinister fashion, and stared at their
troubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, with
lowered voice, "honest tu God, in me own mind I du believe he is th' man
that done ut." He paused--"but provin' ut's a diff'runt matther. We
must foller this up an' get some shtronger evidence yet--behfure we make
th' break."

Suddenly he uttered a hollow chuckle. "Kilbride!" he ejaculated. "Mind
his josh that day--'bout it might be me, or Gully?--an how Gully laughed,
tu, wid th' hand of um like this?"

Napoleonic fashion he thrust his huge fist between the buttons of his
stable-jacket.

"Yes, by gad!" said Yorke reflectively. "I sure do, now. And I'll bet
he had his right hand on his gun, too! Force of habit, I guess, if he's
an ex-deputy-sheriff. From what little he's dropped he's sure knocked
around some, I know. Hard to say where, and what the beggar hasn't been
in his time. This accounts for him being so blooming close about the
Western States. It's always struck me as being queer, that, because,
say, look at the slick way he rides and ropes! He's never picked that up
in five years over on this Side--and that's all he claims he's been in
Canada."

"Besides" chimed in Redmond, eagerly, "that yarn of his about that hobo
swiping his dough, Sergeant! 'Frame-up,' p'raps, . . . gave it to him
and told him to beat it? . . ."

"Aw, rot!" said Yorke, disgustedly. He sniffed, with his peculiar
mannerism, "that's dime-novel stuff, Red. D'ye think he'd be fool enough
to risk that, with the chances of the fellow being picked up any minute
and squealing on him?" He was silent a moment. "Rum thing, though,"