From the moment that they jerked up their horses at MacRae's call, I
had an odd sense of impending trouble. For an instant it seemed as if
they were about to break for cover; and when they approached us there
was a strained, expectant expression on each tanned face, a wariness in
their actions that looked unnatural to me. The nearer they came the more
did I feel keyed up for some emergency. I can't explain why; that's
something that I don't think will bear logical analysis. Who can explain
the sixth sense that warns a night-herder of a stampede a moment before
the herd jumps off the bed-ground? But that is how I felt--and
immediately it transpired that there was good reason.
They stopped their horses within ten feet of us and dismounted, all
three of them, a corporal and two privates, in the same breath that we
said "hello." The corporal, rather chalky-looking under his tan, stepped
forward and laid a hand on MacRae's shoulder.
"Gordon MacRae and Sarge Flood, in the Queen's name I arrest you for the
robbery of Paymaster Ingstram on the MacLeod trail and the murder of
two of his escort, and I warn you that anything you may say will be used
against you."
He poured it out without pause or inflection, like a lesson well
learned, a little ceremony of speech that it was well to hurry over; and
the two troopers edged nearer, the right hand of each stealing toward
the pistol that rested on his hip.
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