The prospector groaned and moved slightly, then raised one knee in a convulsive movement of pain. MacGregor shrank back trembling, his eyes darting about apprehensively. In a far corner another form stirred uneasily and a loud, full-throated cough broke across the stillness like a trumpet of doom.
Several minutes elapsed before MacGregor had recovered sufficiently from his fright to attempt another furtive movement forward. This time he summoned to his aid the last remnant of a wilted spirit. His hands went out toward Dewberry’s throat. These clammy physical members found the cord, but his fingers refused to function in his efforts to untie the knot. For a moment he hesitated, then with a low, almost inhuman growl, he tore his hunting knife from its sheath and tried to cut the cord. In his haste, inadvertently the sharp point of the knife pricked the sleeping man’s chest and, to MacGregor’s great astonishment and horror, Dewberry started visibly and opened his eyes.
* * * * * * * *
The aroma of freshly fried bacon filled the room. Standing among his pots and pans, nursing a new-found despair, “Frenchie” Frischette, road-house keeper and gentleman of parts, could hear the approaching figure. The pupils of his eyes were like beads of glass as they encountered the trim, athletic figure of Corporal Rand.
“Oui,” he admitted slowly, “ze beeg prospector ees dead. You saw heem?”
Corporal Rand nodded.
“How many men have already left?” he inquired.
“Zay haf all left,” Frischette shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “Many before dawn. Zay go in ever’ direction—both ze good men and ze bad. How you find heem of ze beeg knife?”
“The man who stabbed and robbed Dewberry will go south,” Corporal Rand stated with conviction. “It is the law of the land. Men, who have money, invariably go south—to spend it. Is there anything more simple than that, Frischette? The rule seldom fails. Adventure goes north and money goes south. I’m taking the trail south.”
The road-house keeper moistened his dry lips.