Mather rode straight for the house. Considering the circumstances and his errand, Charlie reckoned that foolhardy, but he said nothing. Between house and stable Bill drew rein for a moment, looking down. Fresh tracks in the snow. Some one had walked to the stable. The footprints were paralleled by the track of a horse leading away, past the house toward the canyon wall, where a cleft notch lifted to the upper levels. Then young Bill rode on to the door and swung down.
Charlie crowded at his heels when he shoved open the door. Light streamed through frosted windows. A shaft of sunshine played on the figure of a man lying on the floor.
Unlike Jed Mather, this dead man lay on his back. The rawhide-bound handle of a knife stood up above his breast, like a pin thrust in a cushion.
“Ah,” young Bill whispered, “she beat me to it.”
They stared at the corpse.
“This Munson?” Charlie asked.
Young Bill nodded.
“I gave her that knife once,” said he. “Made it myself out of an old flat file. Look! Didn't I say they must ’a’ fought?”
Munson’s face was bruised, marked by knuckles. Charlie laid a hand on him. He was cold, rigid.
“Let’s get outa here,” young Mather said. “Gives me the creeps. But I was right. He got what he deserved.”