At the Croix d’Or the partners, worried over their problems, and somewhat astonished at the 223 non-appearance of the force, sat on the bench by the mess-house, smoking and silent.
In soft cadence they heard, as from the opposite side of the gulch, the tramping of feet. Swinging along in the dusk the men came, shadowy, unhalting, and homeward bound, like so many tired hounds returning after the day’s hunt. Their march led them past the bench; but they did not look up. There was an unusual gravity in their silence, a pronounced earnestness in their attitude.
“Well,” called Dick, “what did you learn?”
It was the smith who answered, but the others never halted, continuing that slow march to the bunk-house.
“We got him.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Hanging to a beam across the dam he blew up,” was the remorseless response.
He started as if to proceed after the others, then paused long enough to add: “It was that feller that used to be watchman here; the feller that tried to shoot Bill that night. Found him in that old, deserted cabin near the Potlach. Had the shoe on him, and at last said he did it, and was sorry for just one thing, that he didn’t get all of us. Said he’d ’a’ blown the bunk-house and 224 the office up in a week more, and that he’d tried to get you two with a bowlder and had killed your burros––well, when we swung him off, he was still cursing every one and everything connected with the Croix d’Or.”
He paused for an instant, then came closer, and lowered his voice.
“And that ain’t all. He said just before he went off––just like this––mind you: ‘I’d ’a’ got Bully Presby, too, because he didn’t treat me fair, after me doin’ my best and a-keepin’ my mouth shut about what I knew of the big lead.’ Now, what in hell do you suppose he meant by that?”