“I see heem four men go on the south trail ver’ early roun’ five o’clock.”
“Together?”
“Zay went each by heemself.”
“No doubt, one of those four men is the murderer.”
“You t’ink so?”
“Yes,” said the policeman stubbornly, “I’m quite sure the murderer would travel south. At any rate, I’m going in that direction. So long, Frischette.”
Two days later, Corporal Rand was forced to admit that in this case, at least, a precedent had been broken. None of the four men was the murderer. Two were Indians from Lac la Biche; a third, Beckholt, a free trader, a serene, gray-eyed veteran of the North, was above suspicion. Father Marchand, who completed the quartette, could not for one moment be included in any inventory of crime.
Without even taking the time to question one of them, Rand swung about and retraced his way to the scene of the recent murder.
In the policeman’s absence, Frischette had made an important discovery. Eagerly and somewhat excitedly, he told the story in a mixture of poor English and bastard French. Fontaine, a half-breed boy in Frischette’s service, had seen, on the evening preceding the robbery, a tall, furtive-eyed man mix two drinks—one for himself and one for the prospector. In the cup intended for Dewberry, the tall, furtive-eyed man had poured something out of a small bottle. Shortly thereafter, the big prospector had stumbled to his pile of blankets and had fallen asleep.
In doubt, Rand questioned the boy closely. At first, he did not believe Fontaine was telling the truth. Then it became apparent, following a severe cross-examination, that Fontaine had really seen what he had described—was wholly innocent of guile. The description of the furtive-eyed man, his mannerisms, his clothing, the way he walked, had quickly brought a picture to Rand’s mind. There was no possibility of any mistake here. It was MacGregor, “Rat” MacGregor, of the Willow Lake country.