Annette checked her pony and pointed. The mare drew alongside.
“It’s right ahead,” she said, and watched the man’s face in the moonlight. Then, of a sudden: “You don’t believe!” she cried hotly. “You didn’t last night. An’ you don’t now. Oh, I know. You can’t fool me. You’re reck’ning I’m on a play. An’ you’re saying ‘What is it?’ I know. Well, I’m not lyin’. I’m not makin’ any play. My man’s been shot. But, you’re a man. An’ maybe you won’t get what that means.”
Fyles studied the passionate eyes gravely for some moments.
“I get all that,” he said at last. “I don’t think you’re lying. I know we’re going to find Sinclair shot. I know that. I’m believing you all right. We’ll talk later.”
Fyles felt a certain relief as the girl turned, and her pony moved on with a jump, driven by the savage spur.
Minutes later they were clearly outlined in the moonlight, halted before a yawning, black cavern, whose bowels the moon failed to penetrate. Annette pointed.
“It’s all in there,” she said. “The gear. The still. The dead man. I’ll go light the way.”
She slid out of the saddle without waiting for reply. Fyles watched her. And his bowels chilled in a way that had nothing to do with the winter cold.
The body lay just where it had been flung without care or reverence. It was just a dead thing, flung aside out of the way. And it was left to the icy breath of winter to keep it from decay.