"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as he reached the guide's side.
"It's murder—thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.
"But who could—"
"Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep back—don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe thar's some sign left."
"Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively.
"'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This 'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more."
Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle—and taught its meaning, the members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground. Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow deepened, and his lip curled with triumph.
Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet, during the stay at the sick-camp.
Of course no trail had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets. Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a knife—the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather was stained here and there with blood.
"He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise.