Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny point of something yellow had caught his keen eye.
Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him; and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?—
Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye.
Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he listened.
"John Tyrrel."
"Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence.
"Burr Wythe."
"I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o' the trail."
"What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you don't suspect—"
"I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it. Come an' look fer yourself—one at a time, though. See what I've found, then say who it b'longs to."