" and Oscar started to bolt.

"Halt!"

The authority of the tone rang familiarly in Oscar's ears. He had, after
considerable tribulation, learned to stop short when an officer spoke to
him, and the gentleman of the sheepfold stood straight in the starlight
and spoke like an officer.

"What in the devil are you doing here, and who fired that shot?"

Oscar saluted and summoned his best English.

"It was an accident, sir."

"Why are you running and why did you fire? Understand you are a
trespasser here, and I am going to turn you over to the constable."

"There was a sheep-stealer--yes? He is yonder by the pens--and we had
some little fighting; but he is not dead--no?"

At that moment Claiborne's eyes caught sight of a burly figure rising and
threshing about by the broken pen door.

"That is the sheep-stealer," said Oscar. "We shall catch him--yes?"

Zmai peered toward them uncertainly for a moment; then turned abruptly
and ran toward the road. Oscar started to cut off his retreat, but
Claiborne caught the sergeant by the shoulder and flung him back.

"One of you at a time! They can turn the hounds on the other rascal.
What's that you have there? Give it to me--quick!"

"It's a piece of wool--"

But Claiborne snatched the paper from Oscar's hand, and commanded the man
to march ahead of him to the house. So over the meadow and through the
pergola they went, across the veranda and into the library. The power of
army discipline was upon Oscar; if Claiborne had not been an officer he
would have run for it in the garden. As it was, he was taxing his wits to
find some way out of his predicament. He had not the slightest idea as to
what the paper might be. He had risked his life to secure it, and now
the crumpled, blood-stained paper had been taken away from him by a
person whom it could not interest in any way whatever.

He blinked under Claiborne's sharp scrutiny as they faced each other in
the library.

"You are the man who brought a horse back to our stable an hour ago."

"Yes, sir."

"You have been a soldier."

"In the cavalry, sir. I have my discharge at home."

"Where do you live?"

"I work as teamster in the coal mines--yes?--they are by Lamar, sir."

Claiborne studied Oscar's erect figure carefully.

"Let me see your hands," he commanded; and Oscar extended his palms.

"You are lying; you do not work in the coal mines. Your clothes are not
those of a miner; and a discharged soldier doesn't go