"As it stands now," he pursued quietly, "nobody's had a chance to find out much about us. Of the three policemen who came into this country last fall, two are out of sight under the ground, and they'll probably never be found. As for the third, we're going to make certain that he doesn't bear evidence against us."
"Yeh!" interrupted Crill with a surly stare. "But what's to stop us planting this one too?"
"Nothing," returned Stark in his genial drawl. "Only in my opinion it's better to leave one of them to be found, apparently the victim of a timber wreck. Such accidents often happen in these mountains. If the police discover one of their three men laid out like this, they're apt to think that the hazards of winter travel took off the other two as well. They'll search around a while, and then give it up, figuring probably that all three have perished by accident. And nobody can blame us." He glanced down coolly at the stricken officer. "What's your opinion?" he inquired.
Dexter lay with eyes half closed, listening to the cold-blooded discussion. His enemies seemed to be agreed on the question of his death; they differed only as to the manner of execution. But somehow he was not greatly interested in the argument. As long as the end was foredoomed, it did not matter much how the final act was done. He met Stark's gaze, and smiled wanly. "I agree with you," he said. "Your chances of life are much better if my comrades are kept from guessing the truth."
"But wan leetle knock on de head!" cut in Doucet eagerly. He illustrated with an imaginary club wielded in his great sinewy hands. "Wham! Voila tout!" He nodded vigorously. "Dey fin' him wid skull smash. Den dey t'ink de tree she hit 'im so. De snow all melt before anybody come. No foot track lef' from us. Nobody suspec'. An' nobody bodder us ever any more. Is it not so?"
"No!" said Stark decisively. "I owe this man a private accounting, and it's for me to decide the form of payment. And he's not going to die quick and easy."
Stark's air of careless indifference was suddenly cast aside, and as he bent over the policeman, malevolence and hatred gleamed openly in his deep-sunk eyes. "I've been waiting, hoping for a chance like this for months and months," he declared, his voice as frigid and brittle as tinkling ice in a glass. "My only fear was that I wouldn't get you alive. But I have! And for what you've done to me, I'm going to make you pay to your last ounce of endurance, to the last breath you've got!"
Dexter gazed at the man in speechless wonder, unable to account for the venomous outburst. As far as he recalled, he and Stark had never met before, and he could not imagine what he had ever done to call upon himself the malice and detestation so unexpectedly revealed in the bloodless face above him. As he looked up in mute questioning the notion struck him that the man had gone suddenly insane. Stark apparently read the thought in his mind.
"No!" said Stark, tense and hoarse, his affected urbanity of a moment before lost in a demoniacal scowl. "I'm not crazy. You're Corporal David Dexter—and you're the one I've wanted. If you don't know why, I won't give you the satisfaction of being told. Think back—maybe you'll remember!" His lips drew back from his white teeth, and his laugh echoed hideously. "You'll have time to do plenty of thinking before you finish."
With a stiff movement, as though he found it difficult to hold himself in hand, he dropped on one knee and extracted the corporal's pistol from his holster. "You might manage to reach it after we're gone and put a bullet through your head," he grated. "Nothing so nice as that for you!"