“My deduction was correct,” said Piper, well pleased with himself. “He’s the feller who shot Silver Tongue.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PROOF.
In the silence which followed the soft, muffled sound of a wood-chopper’s axe drifted to their ears from the northern slope of Turkey Hill. Even the snow, which was now falling thickly, could be heard making an almost imperceptible rustling and whispering amid the bushes. Slowly Barker folded the red silk handkerchief and put it carefully away in a pocket.
“I think this will be sufficient evidence,” he said harshly; “but we may as well locate the contemptible whelp if we can, and I fancy we’ll find him with his pals at Lander’s camp. It won’t be possible to follow the snowshoe tracks more than two or three minutes longer, but he was certainly heading for that camp.”
“If we do find him, be careful with that gun of yours,” again warned Piper. “Don’t lose your head, Berlin, old man.”
“I’m not a fool,” returned Barker. “Come on.”
The snowshoe trail was soon obliterated, but the last faint tracks were plainly seen to be pointing toward the island in the heart of the swamp, and they pushed straight on. Finally the old camp came into view through the film of falling snow, and in a hoarse whisper Piper called attention to the fact that smoke was rising from the piece of rusty stovepipe which served as a chimney. With all possible caution the three trailers crept forward.
Not a sound came from within the camp; the smoking chimney was the only token which gave evidence that a human being had been there in many hours—possibly many days. After wasting some time in vain listening, Berlin suddenly made a bold move, advancing toward the door.