"What's your private opinion?" George asked.
The constable smiled.
"As we haven't gone very far yet, I'll reserve it." He took up the bullet. "Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing to be made of that. Now let's go and take a look at the place where the shot was fired."
They traced back the path of the wounded beast from the spot where Grierson had found it, by the red splashes that here and there stained the short grass of the unfenced prairie. At last they stopped where the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled with small birches and poplars, and Flett pointed to the mark of hoofs in a strip of almost bare, light soil.
"This is where he was hit," he said. "You can see how he started off, going as hard as he could. Next, we've got to find the spot the man fired from."
It proved difficult. The dry grass revealed nothing, and they vainly searched several of the neighboring hillocks, where it grew less thickly. Scorching sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew the sand about. At length Flett pointed to a few half-obliterated footprints on the bare summit of a small rise.
"The fellow stopped here with his feet well apart. He'd stand like that while he put up his gun. Sit down and smoke while I copy these marks."
He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some paper from the homestead.
"Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing shot he took?"
George asked.
"I haven't; I wish I had. Quite a lot depends upon his position."