Nobody spoke for a long half-minute, but men glanced significantly at one another, and a general restlessness pervaded the packed room. Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke caught a glimpse of Breck, Lucy, and her husband whispering together.
“Come on, you,” Shunk Wilson said gruffly to Smoke. “Cut this questionin' short. We know what you're tryin' to prove—that the other bank wa'n't searched. The witness admits it. We admit it. It wa'n't necessary. No tracks led to that bank. The snow wa'n't broke.”
“There was a man on the other bank just the same,” Smoke insisted.
“That's too thin for skatin', young man. There ain't many of us on the McQuestion, an' we got every man accounted for.”
“Who was the man you hiked out of camp two weeks ago?” Smoke asked.
“Alonzo Miramar. He was a Mexican. What's that grub-thief got to do with it?”
“Nothing, except that you haven't accounted for HIM, Mr. Judge.”
“He went down the river, not up.”
“How do you know where he went?”
“Saw him start.”