“Sure he can,” assented Garry. “Only, this time he didn’t. A dog that’s spent his life running, thirty miles a day, over this country’s hardpan, after straying or bolting sheep--that dog’s feet gets as splayed as a cimmaron bear’s. A wolf’s don’t. A wolf don’t have to run, except when he wants to. And his pads don’t splay, to any extent. No more’n a house dog’s feet splay. These tracks was of feet that weren’t hardly splayed at all. So that’s the answer to that.... Well, we’re wasting time. I wanted to pass the word to you boys, and I wanted to see if one of you or both of you would maybe join up with the posse we’re going to form. How about it?” Before either of the partners could answer, the Golden Fleece foreman cried out and pointed a stubby forefinger, dramatically. Around the corner of the farthest outbuilding, from the direction of the coulée, appeared a bedraggled figure. The newcomer was Treve. His golden-tawny coat and his immaculate white ruff and frill were stained with mire and blood. Bloodstreaks marred his classic muzzle and his jaws. He was hobbling on three legs; his left forepaw dangling helpless in air. The dog made straight for Mack and Fenno; his plumed tail essaying to wag greeting to his masters. He was a sorry sight. In his dark deepset eyes lurked the glint of half-shame, half-fun, which is the eternal expression of a collie that has been in delightful mischief and fears a scolding for his pranks. After that first loud exclamation from the foreman, none of the onlookers spoke or moved; for the space of perhaps ten seconds. Frozen, wide-eyed, jaws adroop, they stared at the oncoming Treve. In every brain raced the same line of glaringly simple logic. And in every brain was registered the dire word: “Guilty!” Treve, ignoring the battery of horrified eyes, came limping up to Royce Mack, and stood in front of the younger man, gazing in friendly fashion into the whitened face and holding out for sympathy his sprained foreleg. But, for once in his life, Treve received from his adored god neither sympathy nor a pat, nor any other sign of welcome. Royce simply blinked down at him in unbelieving horror. As Mack gave no response to his overtures, Treve limped over to Joel Fenno, thrusting his bloodstained muzzle affectionately into the oldster’s cupped palm. At the touch, a violent shudder wrenched Joel’s whole meager body. He did not withdraw his hand from the caress. But he turned his sick eyes miserably toward Bob Garry. In response to the look, Garry said curtly: “The Killer’s found; sooner’n I thought. I’m sorry, boys. I know what store you set by the brute. But there’s only one thing to do. You know that, as well as I do.” There was no answer. Royce Mack took an impulsive half-step between the speaker and the wondering collie. Fenno did not speak nor stir. His sick old eyes were still fixed on Garry with a world of appeal in them. Garry spoke again; this time with a tinge of angry impatience in his tone.