“Couldn’t we hang a noose in the trail?” asked Moale.
“No way of keeping a noose spread,” returned Gault. “It’s better to stretch the tracking line across the trail from tree to tree at such a height that it will catch him under the chin. I hope it breaks his damn neck. Most likely though, it will only yank him off his horse.”
Loseis’ blood slowly congealed as she listened. There could be no doubt who the “him” was that they referred to.
“Then we’ll jump on him,” Gault went on; “and tie him up, and lay him in the trail, and pull the tree over. I’ve got it all figured out. The branches of that tree will stick out over the edge of the bank, consequently the trunk will lie flat on the ground and break his back.”
“It may not kill him outright,” suggested Moale.
Loseis heard a horrible chuckle. Gault said: “Oh, I’ll stick around until he dies. I don’t care if he lingers a bit. I hope he’ll have sense enough to take in what I’ve got to tell him. If he lingers too long I’ll stop his breath. You fellows can ride on. I’ve got the best horse. I’ll overtake you. We’ll all have to ride like hell to get to Fort Good Hope in time to establish a proper alibi.”
There was a brief silence, then:
“But there won’t be any trouble. Unless he’s found to-morrow, the coyotes and the wolverines will have picked him clean. And in any case the fallen tree, the broken back will tell their own tale. I’ll recover the letter, of course, before I leave him.”
“Hadn’t we better keep a watch alongside the trail?” Moale asked uneasily.
“Why?”