“What is it, Archy?  There’s nothing here.”

“Nothing?  Do you call that nothing?” and he swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his finger.  “There—­don’t you recognize it now?  It’s Injun Billy’s track.  He’s got the child.”

“God be praised!” from the mother.

“Take away the lantern.  I’ve got the direction.  Follow!”

He started on a run, racing in and out among the sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.  Ten steps away was a little wickiup, a dim and formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.

“You lead, Mrs. Hogan,” said the lad.  “It’s your privilege to be first.”

All followed the sprint she made for the wickiup, and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded.  Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was asleep beside him.  The mother hugged it with a wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tears running down her face, and in a choked and broken voice she poured out a golden stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments which has its home in full richness nowhere but in the Irish heart.

“I find her bymeby it is ten o’clock,” Billy explained.  “She ’sleep out yonder, ve’y tired—­face wet, been cryin’, ’spose; fetch her home, feed her, she heap much hungry—­go ’sleep ’gin.”

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived rank and hugged him too, calling him “the angel of God in disguise.”  And he probably was in disguise if he was that kind of an official.  He was dressed for the character.

At half past one in the morning the procession burst into the village singing, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” waving its lanterns and swallowing the drinks that were brought out all along its course.  It concentrated at the tavern, and made a night of what was left of the morning.

PART II

I

The next afternoon the village was electrified with an immense sensation.  A grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable name upon the register: 

SherlockHolmes

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest.  A man passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner’s.  At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn sick.  He muttered to himself: