“Should be some blood to trail him by,” he muttered. “I got him twice. Hello! here it is!”
Pressing the button at intervals, they followed the faint dribbles and spots along the ties. Clear past the station offices and freight shed, it led them, right to the shelving terminus of the platform, where they brought up a dozen or so yards beyond when the blood marks suddenly ceased.
“What place is that?” whispered the policeman, indicating a small structure whose shadowy outlines loomed up vaguely against the surrounding gloom.
“Section men’s hut,” the agent whispered back. “There’s only some tools and a handcar in there. It’s locked, though, and Petersen, the section boss, has the key. He can’t get in there. Let’s go on a piece—we may pick it up again.”
They crept cautiously on for a short distance, but the sanguinary trail failed to reappear.
“No use goin’ any farther,” protested Ellis, in a low tone. “P’r’aps he’s doubled back an’ cached himself under the platform.”
They retraced their steps and soon picked up the blood spots again. Benton, gun in hand, halted irresolutely in front of the section hut.
“You sure it’s locked, Carey?” he said.
The other moved ahead impatiently. “Yes, sure” he answered. “It’s no good lookin’ there, Sergeant—let’s rout around the platform.”
A sudden impulse, though, moved Ellis to step over to the shed. Grasping the door handle, he pulled on it. To his surprise it swung open.