A figure, a living human figure was standing over a dead body sprawled on the ground at its feet. It was a figure clad in familiar enough furs. And in its right hand was a revolver of old-fashioned pattern.
It was all vivid and unmistakable. It required no imagination to translate that scene and discover the meaning of it. Murder! It was murder. And the figure gazing down upon the lifeless form of its victim, maybe gloating over the dreadful work it had accomplished, was there red-handed, seemingly indifferent to all chances of discovery.
The brilliant patch of color, staring up under the lantern light, where the murdered man’s black furs were flung wide open, told at once of the identity of the victim. A policeman! A police officer shot down! Shot to instant death! The madness of it. The reckless wantonness.
A mitted hand was raised and passed across the watching, horrified eyes. It was a gesture of helplessness. A gesture that told of something approaching weakness. It was followed by a deep-drawn breath. Then came reaction. The watching eyes turned abruptly from the spectacle. It was as though a supreme effort of will had been put forth to shut out a terror that was overwhelming.
Then sudden movement.
It was at that moment that the lantern light was extinguished, and the whole scene was gone from view. The watcher could only hear. There was the slither of hurried footsteps. A shadow detached itself from the blackness of the cavern. It moved out into the dim moonlight. And presently it was gone, vanished in the twilight of the shadowed world.
The next moment the place where the watcher had crouched was empty.
Pideau was standing in the shadow of the woods. He was at the appointed rendezvous. He had faithfully carried out the orders he had received. But there was no liquor awaiting him.
The bluff on Spruce Coulee was deserted, given up to the solitude that belonged to it.