It took us all of the next day to make the trip to Stony Crossing and
back by way of the place where Rutter was buried. Goodell had no fancy,
he said, for a night camp on the prairie when it could be avoided. He
planned to make an early start from Pend d' Oreille, and thus reach Walsh
by riding late the next night. So, well toward evening, we swung back to
the river post. Goodell and his fellows were nowise troubled by the
presence of dead men; they might have been packing so much merchandise,
from their demeanor. But I was a long way from feeling cheerful. The
ghastly burdens, borne none too willingly by the extra horses, put a
damper on me, and I'm a pretty sanguine individual as a rule.

When we had unloaded the bodies from the uneasy horses, and laid them
carefully in a lean-to at the stable-end, we led our mounts inside.
Goodell paused in the doorway and emitted a whistle of surprise at sight
of a horse in one of the stalls. I looked over his shoulder and
recognized at a glance the rangy black MacRae had ridden.

"They must have given Mac's horse to another trooper," I hazarded.

"Not that you could notice," Goodell replied, going on in. "They don't
switch mounts in the Force. If they have now, it's the first time to my
knowledge. When a man's in clink, his nag gets nothing but mild exercise
till his rightful rider gets out. And MacRae got thirty days. Well,
we'll soon find out who rode him in."

I pulled the saddle off my horse, slapped it down on the dirt floor, and
went stalking up to the long cabin. The first man my eyes lighted upon
as I stepped inside was MacRae, humped disconsolately on the edge of a
bunk. I was mighty glad to see him, but I hadn't time to more than say
"hello" before Goodell and the others came in. Mac drew a letter from