“Who goes there?” called the voice of the newcomer.
“A friend,” answered Orlando mechanically. Presently the new-comer sprang down from his wagon and came over to Orlando.
“What is it, Mr. Guise?” he asked. “What’s the trouble?... Who’s that?” he added, pointing to the dead body.
“It’s Mazarine. He’s dead,” answered Orlando quietly.
“Oh, good God!” said the other.
He was an insurance agent of the town of Askatoon, who, that very evening, had heard Orlando threaten the Master of Tralee—that if ever he passed him or met him, and Mazarine did not get out of the way, it would be the worse for him. Well, here in the trail were Orlando and Mazarine—and Mazarine was dead!
“Good God!” the new-comer repeated. Scarsdale was his name.
Then Orlando explained. “It’s not what you think,” he said. Then he told the story—such as there was to tell—of what had happened during the last few moments.
Scarsdale climbed up into the wagon, struck a light, looked at the body of Mazarine, at his face, and then lifted up the beard and examined the neck. There were finger-marks in the flesh.
“So, that’s it,” he said. “Strangled! He seems to have took it easy, sittin’ there like that,” he added as he climbed down.