Sergeant Murray, in the homestead kitchen, smoked his pipe and pondered. Fothergill occupied the window seat and waited. The farmer’s wife was at the windmill pump, and nobody was about. By and by Murray put up his pipe.
“The McLeod boys are persuaded the men ye trailed did not make Montana, but I own I’m puzzled. We have stopped the trails and searched the boundary for a hundred miles—”
“It is puzzling,” Fothergill agreed. “Perhaps the fellows are lying up in a coulée; but somehow I think they did get across.”
coulée“I ken ye think it,” Murray rejoined with a meaning smile. “Weel, the superintendent calls me to McLeod, but since ye’re no’ able for duty, ye must stop. In seven days ye’ll report by wire from Swift Current, and wait orders.”
“Swift Current is some distance from the bound
