And so the Vigilantes went in and up along the lower ways. There were those among them who had been here before, who from time to time had accompanied the snow-packer on his nightly trips just for the curiosity of the thing. These several men, among whom were Albright from the Pomo settlement––a squawman––took the lead, and Albright, keen as a hound on trail, picked up Old Pete’s marks and signs at a running walk.
And so it was, that, while the sun was still shining on the high peaks above and the cañons were filled with a strange pink light reflected from the red and yellow faces of the rock, the Vigilantes came suddenly to a halt, for Albright had stopped.
“Here’s where it happened,” he said, “there’s a blood-sign.” And he pointed to the Wall at a spot about breast high. A thin dark line, no wider than a blade of grass and about as long, spraying out to nothing at the upper end, leaned along the 200 rock like a native marking. No other eye had seen it. Not one in a thousand would have seen it.
“Good,” said Kenset, “you’re the man for more of this.”
They crowded around and examined the telltale spray.
Not one among them but knew it for the stain of blood.
From that they spread out and back to search the sliding heaps of dust-like powdery rock-slide that lay everywhere along the walls.
It took Albright five minutes by Kenset’s watch to find the disturbed and clumsily smoothed dump which held all that was mortal of the snow-packer.
“Miss Last,” said Kenset as the men began to dig with the spades brought along for the purpose, “you had best step back a bit.”
But Tharon pushed nearer.