“Why,” said Dick in surprise, “I should think you could convict him easily. What about the shooting of Pearly and the assault upon Richardson?”
“True enough. But Murky didn’t commit these crimes.”
“No; but he ordered them done. He’s the person responsible.”
“Unfortunately, that may be rather hard to prove. It all depends upon what attitude the other outlaws take.”
The forenoon was long and tedious. Lines of worry began to crease the corporal’s forehead. Dick was driven to the verge of desperation. The pack-train had not yet returned. Sitting in front of the campfire, opposite the sailor and Nichols, with Rand pacing nervously back and forth behind him, Dick pictured a hundred imaginary perils and disasters that had befallen Toma. Sometimes he saw him languishing in a dark, foul room, suffering all the tortures of imprisonment; and again he visualized a limp, lifeless form, crumpled in the snow in the depth of some forest solitude, around him the leering, grinning faces of the outlaws. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Dick had become almost desperate. He rose to his feet and drew the corporal aside.
“I can’t endure this much longer. Let’s do something.”
The policeman took the younger man’s arm affectionately.
“There is only one thing that I can propose—and you may not like that.”
“You can stay here and watch these two vultures while I go out and try to find Toma.”
Moisture had gathered in Dick’s eyes. Through a glistening film, he looked up at the corporal.
“Will you let me go? This inactivity, this suspense is killing me by inches. Corporal, I’ll promise to be very careful. But please let me go.”
“All right, Dick, you can start. Take your blankets and a few supplies—if you can find any. If you have not discovered any trace of him by noon tomorrow, come back and report to me.”
Dick lost no time in making his departure. All that afternoon he trudged through the snow, sometimes picking up the track of a pony and losing it again, on other occasions, coming across human footprints or the charred remains of a campfire. When darkness descended, he was miles back from the coast, with nothing more encouraging to buoy up his spirits than the thought that he must soon reach the main-travelled trail. His aching legs carried him along the slope of a hill—up, up interminably; then he struck out north by east in the direction he knew must eventually lead him to the place he sought. But as the miles slipped past, he grew so weary and footsore that he decided to make camp for the night. Just ahead he could see what appeared to be the edge of a coulee—and he struggled on with the intention of entering it, thereby gaining protection from the chill, moist wind that blew in from the sea.