The match fell from Stark’s fingers. In darkness they stood huddled about that silent form stretched on the ground. Fear had gripped their hearts. They longed to turn and hurry from the spot, but curiosity held them yet a little longer.
Stark struck another match and bent over Arlington. He thrust a hand inside Chester’s coat and felt for his heart. In his excitement he was quite unaware that he was feeling on the wrong side.
“My God!” he said huskily. “You have killed him, Bunol! His heart does not even flutter!”
“He should know better than to fool with Miguel Bunol,” said the Spaniard.
By the gleam of the expiring match they glanced at Miguel’s face and saw there no look of regret. The Spaniard was utterly pitiless, and remorse had not touched him. A little while before he had seemed the devoted friend of Chester Arlington, but his friendship had turned to the bitterest hatred, and his hatred had led to this terrible deed that might be—murder!
“Let’s get out of here!” whispered Crauthers, “We didn’t do it! We had nothing to do with it! We know nothing about it!”
Stark wanted them to stay a little longer, but panic seemed to clutch them. Crauthers went staggering up the tree trunk, with Hogan following close behind. They did not pause when Stark called to them.
“We better go, too,” said Bunol.
“You go to the devil!” burst from Stark, suddenly overcome by repulsion caused by the treachery of the fellow. But he did not care to be left there with the Spaniard and the fellow he had slain, so he hastened to cross over the trees and rush after his companions.
Like a cat, Bunol followed, and in the desolate woods was left the unfortunate lad who had been struck down by his erstwhile comrade.