"The mule?" gasped Anne. "Why—wha—"
The pack mule that had been left at the camp, they saw laying stretched out on the ground, its halter still tied to a sapling. Hippy was now standing over it, peering down at the animal. Stooping over, he examined it briefly.
"Somebody has done it this time. The mule is dead, folks," he announced, standing up. "Shot through the head. It seems our friends have not yet deserted us."
"This is an outrage!" muttered Elfreda.
Grace turned on her lamp and went over the ground about the mule, examining the dirt for footprints as carefully as possible. Next she visited the hiding place of their provisions and equipment, there to make the same careful, painstaking search of the ground.
"Hob-nail boots. I find the imprint of the same boots in both places. One man apparently did all of this," was her conclusion.
"Such as all these mountaineers wear," added Anne.
"Perhaps, but I do not believe it. These boots had a horseshoe of hob-nails on each heel. Look at the footprints in the morning and see for yourself."
"Wait!" exclaimed Miss Briggs. "I have a thought."
"Hold it," called Hippy. "We need real thought this very minute."