One day he happened on a short, heavy-set man, the sheriff, who had lost his office on the strength of Jud Clark's escape, and had now recovered it. Bassett had brought some whisky with him, and on the promise of a drink lured Wilkins to his room. Over his glass the sheriff talked.
“All this newspaper stuff lately about Jud Clark being alive is dead wrong,” he declared, irritably. “Maggie Donaldson was crazy. You can ask the people here about her. They all know it. Those newspaper fellows descended on us here with a tooth-brush apiece and a suitcase full of liquor, and thought they'd get something. Seemed to think we'd hold out on them unless we got our skins full. But there isn't anything to hold out. Jud Clark's dead. That's all.”
“Sure he's dead,” Bassett agreed, amiably. “You found his horse, didn't you?”
“Yes. Dead. And when you find a man's horse dead in the mountains in a blizzard, you don't need any more evidence. It was five months before you could see a trail up the Goat that winter.”
Bassett nodded, rose and poured out another drink.
“I suppose,” he observed casually, “that even if Clark turned up now, it would be hard to convict him, wouldn't it?”
The sheriff considered that, holding up his glass.
“Well, yes and no,” he said. “It was circumstantial evidence, mostly. Nobody saw it done. The worst thing against him was his running off.”
“How about witnesses?”
“Nobody actually saw it done. John Donaldson came the nearest, and he's dead. Lucas's wife was still alive, the last I heard, and I reckon the valet is floating around somewhere.”