man has been dead for eight hours. That means he was killed about midnight. The Utes were brought in not later than ten last night. They were already crazy drunk, whooping and hollering."
"You can't take Doc's word for it," McCune countered. "Suppose these Indians went out to meet the man, and he had hooch? Suppose they put an arrow in his back, then took the whiskey?"
"That's too many supposes for a night as dark as last night, Sergeant," Hornaby said. "Suppose you do as you're ordered and leave this to me. You told me it was my baby," Hornaby said.
"Some babies are born with teeth, Major. Be careful this one doesn't bite you."
"Release the Indians."
"So you're not going to question them?"
"What could they know about it? They were drunk."
"They might know a lot about it. You want to solve the case, don't you? Don't tell me that by some magic insight you've already discovered the murderer?"
"McCune," Hornaby snapped, "get out of here. When I want any more of your opinions, I'll ask for them."
McCune's impertinence always left Major Hornaby with a feeling of guilt and discontent.
His striker came in with a peculiar look on his face, a look that Hornaby resented. The young trooper made him feel guilty of some foul deed.
"What is it, Mr. Wagner?" Hornaby asked impatiently.
"There's a girl outside who wants to see you?"
"A girl?"
"Yes, sir. One of Addie's girls. Gladys."
"What does she want?"
"She won't say, sir," Wagner said. "She wants to see you personally."
"All right, Wagner. Get that look off your face. I didn't send for her. Let her come in."
Unconsciously, Hornaby straightened his tunic and ran his slim hand over his hair. When he went to Addie's, he went to see Addie. She was a woman a man could talk to without having to revert to banal vulgarities. He remembered Gladys, a nice-looking girl, but one with a chip on her shoulder. Then the door opened and Gladys Came in. In her hand she carried very carefully some object wrapped loosely in a cloth.
Chapter 6
As Paul rode the load of leafy, sweet-smelling alfalfa toward the post, his mind was everywhere but on the road. He tried to straighten out the events of the night before and fit them into some kind of chronological order. When he had left Norah, glum and silent in the kitchen, he had found Eglund already asleep in the bunkhouse. This morning when he had gone into the kitchen for breakfast, Eglund had already eaten and left.
It was doubtful that Eglund had been the prowler at the ranch, but Eglund might know who the prowler was. There was even a chance that Sodek might know.
The horses were turning toward the stockade, and Paul frowned as he noticed the increase in activity. Troopers were talking in groups; others were going sullenly about their jobs. As the wagon lumbered through the gate, Paul greeted the sentry and warped the team into the hay yard. While he waited for MeCune to check him in, he saw a freighter unloading some miscellaneous supplies. Two sentries, fully armed, flanked the wagon. Paul tried to puzzle this out as he watched two other men examining everything being unloaded from the big freight wagon.
When McCune came over with the stub of a cigar in his mouth and his hat shading his eyes, Paul asked, "What's all this about, Sergeant? New regulations?"
"Major Hornaby's orders, Scott. It won't delay you very much longer," McCune said with more of a military bearing than he had previously assumed.
"What does he have—visions?" Paul grinned. "Shall I back up to the stack so the load can be pulled off?"
"No; pull up alongside this morning. We're unloading by hand," McCune answered.
Paul's curiosity was aroused.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"Booze. The major took one of his sneak walks at sunup and found the sentry on Post One asleep drunk. He had men search the camp to find where the booze was coming from. One of the three bottles they found was in his quarters. Some joker managed to take the bottle out of my hut and