The match had dropped from Moale’s nerveless fingers. He fumbled with another. At last the little flame sprang up. “Look!” he said. “Look!”
“God Almighty!” cried Gault. “What’s he doing back here?”
Moale was feeling under the man’s head. “He’ll never tell you,” he said grimly. “His neck is broke.”
Gault said anxiously: “See if he has the letter on him.”
A search revealed that the letter was gone.
“Then he has been to Conacher,” said Gault. “Drag him into the bush, and we’ll go get that white man.”
“If his body should be found . . .” suggested Moale. “Hadn’t we better drop the tree on him as planned for the other?”
“Hell! I’m not going to waste that trick on a redskin! I may want it later. Pitch him in the river. The current will carry him far beyond the sight of mankind.”
But as Moale started to obey, Gault changed his mind again. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll help you to hoist his body out of way of the coyotes. Conacher was the last man who saw Etzooah alive, understand? We will use that later.”
The Indian’s body, still warm, was hung over two spruce branches. The Crees were summoned to fetch the horses from their hiding-place, and Gault and his three men rode south.