He was a tall, lean man, with a hawklike nose and keen blue eyes. He wore
a long frock coat, considerably the worse for wear, and this, with his
slouch hat, gave him the appearance of a Western marshal, in the eyes of
Jerry, at least.

"Who was this scoundrel?" asked Frank uneasily.

"His name is Bob Young, an' he's really the son o' a minister upcountry,
but long ago his father cast him off as a scamp. He'll sure swing one o'
these days," replied the sheriff, looking keenly at Frank, as though he
suspected he might know something that he wanted to hear.

"Then he's a white man?" asked the other quickly, and with evident
relief.

"Shore he is, an' the toughest ever. Seen any sign o' him, stranger?"

"Not a thing. We had a coon in camp last night, starving, and we fed him.
He was Black George, the man they ran out of town some time back,"
ventured Frank.

He saw that the dogs were nosing about, and feared lest they should set
out on the trail of the poor wretch by mistake.

The sheriff laughed.

"Oh, our time's too valuable to fool away with that black trash. He ain't
wuth shootin'. Come on, then, boys. Like tuh sit up with yuh, friends,
an' have a snack, but we got to be on the move afore the trail below gits
cold. Yuh see, we hed word 'bout Bob, an' we wanter git him this clip,