the grey-haired man threw a parting word

  Mahon's brows met in surprise.   "No, I'm not crazy," grinned the Inspector. "I'm not even trying to delude myself. . . . And he never was such a friend of mine as you thought he was of yours."   Mahon controlled himself to formality. "I'll go out and find him, sir, if you say so, and let him tell his own story."   "You'll find him when it pleases him to be found."   "If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to get back to the Lodge right away. I feel as if I need ranchers and cowboys to remove the taste of that north country from my mouth."   A slow smile crept into the Inspector's face.   "I imagine it'll please him to be found--and by you," he said.   As the door was closing behind the Sergeant, the grey-haired man threw a parting word: "Take my advice, Boy, and don't do any adding till Blue Pete gives you the figures. If the addition's unpleasant then . . . wait till I add for you."     Mahon covered the thirty miles to the Police post at Medicine Lodge without a rest. A fever of uncertainty was consuming him. The Inspector's faith in the halfbreed made the whole uncanny affair a deeper mystery than ever. For eight months Blue Pete had been "on the run," and then had come the great sacrifice they had all believed--at least all but the Inspector--to be his death. During those eight months the Sergeant himself had traced northward the horses the halfbreed had stolen. He had actually caught Mira Stanton, Blue Pete's partner, in the act of rustling.

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