“It’s evidence enough, Jim; but say, I haven’t got this through me yet. You didn’t tell me anything about seeing Red Pete, let alone taking his photograph. It’s a wonder he didn’t put a knife in you for that.”
Jim laughed. “I expect he would if he was sure what had happened,” he replied. “Yer see thet thar buck must hev taken one o’ th’ other runs an’ reached th’ lake, where Pete was laying fer him. Pete potted him, an’ then waitin’ just long enough t’ bleed him an’ take out his innards (I found ’em th’ next mornin’) he dug out ’fore we should come snoopin’ round. He jes’ happened t’ hit th’ run th’ camera was on, an’ o’ course he fired th’ flash. Oh, glory! I wish I could hev seen his face right after thet flash! I bet every black har on his head was standin’ on end an’ thet Pete was reelin’ off prayers t’ every saint he’s ever heard o’ as fast as his tongue could go!”
“I notice that he held on to the deer,” observed the warden dryly.
“You bet he did!” replied Jim. “Thet flash jes’ naturally blinded him fer a few minutes, an’ he couldn’t see nothin’! Then he heered us comin’ on th’ jump an’ he didn’t hev no time t’ look fer th’ camera an’ bust it. He jes’ hit th’ trail double quick a-trustin’ t’ luck thet we didn’t git nothin’.”
“This is all the evidence I want,” said the warden. “Doctor, I want you to let me have Jim for a couple of days. I need him, for Pete’s a slippery customer, and it’ll need two of us to surprise him. We’ll start for Lonesome early to-morrow morning, and the less said about our movements the better. Remember, boy, mum’s the word,” he added, turning to Walter.
Jim had been studying the photograph closely. “Whopping big buck Pete’s got thar!” he remarked, then added sharply, “Son, come here an’ tell me if this is a scratch on th’ picter or if it’s in th’ picter!”
The guide was pointing to a tiny white line on the shoulder of the deer. Walter examined it closely. “It’s in the picture,” he said slowly. Then, a startling idea slowly forming in his mind, he looked up at the guide, who instantly read his thought.
“Yes,” said the big fellow with angry bitterness. “It’s him. It’s the King o’ Lonesome Pond, th’ big buck you ’n’ me trailed thet mornin’, murdered by a half-breed cutthroat who’d treat you ’n’ me jes’ th’ same if he dared, an’ he could see a dollar in it. I’m ready t’ start when you are, warden, an’ th’ sooner I see his ugly mug behind th’ bars th’ sooner I kin enjoy my vittles agin.”
When the name of Red Pete was first mentioned it had sounded strangely familiar to Walter, but try as he would he could not place it. Now as he studied the photograph he recognized the low-browed, surly axeman who had been in the waiting room at Upper Chain the morning of his arrival in the woods, and there flashed through his mind Big Jim’s characterization of Pete that morning as the “meanest man in th’ mountains.” How little he had dreamed that their lines would ever cross, and now—he shivered involuntarily as he wondered what the outcome would be and what would happen if the outlaw should chance to learn of the evidence Walter now held in his hand.
“I—I guess you’d better keep the film and the prints,” he said, turning to Dr. Merriam, and breathed easier as the doctor took them. Then excusing himself, he hurried out to find Hal and warn him not to breathe a word about the second flashlight picture.