It was a dark night. Heavy clouds obscured the face of the sky, through which only one or two stars struggled faintly, and rendered darkness visible. The two men passed rapidly along the little footpath that led from the colony to the more open country beyond. This gained, they turned abruptly to the right, and, entering a narrow defile, proceeded at a more cautious pace into the gloomy recesses of the mountains.
“Have a care, Larry O’Neil,” whispered the Scotchman, as they advanced; “the road is not so safe here, owing to a number of pits which have been made by diggers after gold—they lie close to the edge of the path, and are pretty deep.”
“All right; I’m lookin’ out,” replied Larry, groping his way after his comrade, at the base of a steep precipice.
“Here is the place,” said McLeod, stopping and pushing aside the bushes which lined the path. “Keep close to me—there is no road.”
“Are ye sure o’ the spot?” inquired Larry, in an undertone, while a feeling of awe crept over him at the thought of being within a few yards of a murdered man in such a dark, wild place.
“Quite sure. I have marked the trees. See there!” He pointed to a white spot on the stem of a tree, where a chip had been cut off, and close to which was a mound of earth and stones. This mound the two men proceeded to break up, and in less than ten minutes they disentombed the body from its shallow grave, and commenced to examine the fatal wound. It was in an advanced state of decomposition, and they hurried the process by the light of a bright solitary star, whose flickering rays pierced through the overspreading branches and fell upon the ghastly countenance of the murdered man.
While thus occupied, they were startled by the sound of breaking twigs, as if some one were slowly approaching; whispering voices were also heard.
“It must be hereabouts,” said a voice in a low tone; “he pointed out the place.”
“Ho!” cried McLeod, who, with Larry, had seized and cocked his rifle, “is that you, Webster?”
“Halloo! McLeod, where are you?”