“That’s it,” Keating said grimly. “I’ve done it, and I’ve solved your murder case for you.”
“Thanks,” Bill Eldon said dryly.
They filed out of the cabin.
Once more Keating said, “I order you to put that man under arrest.”
“I heard you,” Bill Eldon said.
Keating turned to Olney. “What sort of title does this man have to this property?”
“Well, he’s built this cabin under lease from the Forestry Service—”
“And the Forestry Service retains the right to inspect the premises?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“All right,” Keating said, “let’s do some inspecting.”
Frank Ames stood in the doorway, his heart pounding with anger, and the old nervous weakness was back, making the muscles of his legs quiver. He watched the men moving around in front of the cabin, saw the ranger suddenly pause. “This chopping block has been moved,” Olney said. “It was over there for quite a while. You can see the depression in the ground. Why did you move it, Ames?”
Ames, suddenly surprised, said, “I didn’t move it. Someone else must have moved it.”
Olney tilted the chopping block on edge, rolled it back to one side. Keating said, “Someone has disturbed this earth. Is there a spade here?”
Olney said, “Here’s one,” and reached for the shovel which was standing propped against the cabin.
Keating started digging under the place where the chopping block had been.
Ames pushed forward to peer curiously over Bill Eldon’s shoulder.
Roberta Coe, standing close to him, slipped her hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“What’s this?” Keating asked.
The spade had caught on a piece of red cloth.
Keating dropped to his knees, pulled away the rest of the loose soil with his fingers, brought out a knotted red bandanna, untied the knots and spread on the ground the assortment of things that were rolled up in it.
Ames, looking with incredulous eyes, saw a leather billfold, a card case distended from cards and documents, a fountain pen, a pencil, a notebook, a knife, some loose silver, a white handkerchief, a package of cigarettes, a folder of matches and a small, round waterproof match case.
Keating picked up the card case, opened it to show the cards of identification, neatly arranged in hinged cellophane pockets.
The first card showed a picture of a man with thick hair, a close-clipped dark mustache, and, even in the glimpse he had of it, Frank Ames could see it was the photograph of the murdered man.
“Deputy license of George Bay,” Keating announced. “Here’s another one. Identification showing George Bay licensed as a private detective. Here’s a credit card, Standard Oil Company, made out to George Bay. Some stuff that’s been in here is missing. You can see this card case has been distended with cards that were in the pockets. They’re gone now. What did you do with them, Ames?”
Ames could only shake his head.
“You see,” Keating said triumphantly, turning to Eldon. “He thought he could keep anyone from finding out the identity of the murdered man, so he removed everything that could have been a means of identification.”
The sheriff shook his head sadly. “This murderer is making me plumb mad.”
“You don’t act like it,” Keating said.
“Thinking we’d be so dumb we couldn’t find all the clues he planted unless he was so darned obvious about it,” the sheriff went on sadly. “It’s just plumb insultin’ to our intelligence. He was so darned afraid we wouldn’t find all that stuff he even moved the choppin’ block. I’d say that man just don’t think we’ve got good sense.”
“You mean you’re going to try to explain away this evidence?” Keating asked.
Bill Eldon shook his head. “I’m not explaining a thing. It’s just plumb insultin’, that’s all.”
Roberta Coe, her mind in a turmoil, followed a tributary of the main stream, walking along a game trail, hardly conscious of where she was going or of her surroundings, wanting only to get entirely away from everyone.
She could keep silent, protect her secret and retain her position in her circle of friends, or she could tell what she knew, help save an innocent man — and bring the security of her life, with all of its pleasant associations, tumbling down in ruins. After all, the sheriff had not specifically asked her to identify those photographs.
It was not an easy decision.
Yet she knew in advance what her answer was to be. She had sought the vast, rugged majesty of the mountains, the winding trail along the talkative stream, to give her strength.
If she had been going to take refuge in weakness, she would have been in camp with her companions, a highball glass in her hand, talking, joking, using the quick-witted repartee of her set to shield her mind from the pressure of her conscience.
But she needed strength, needed it desperately. Frank Ames had managed to get spiritual solace from these mountains. If she could only let some of their sublime indifference to the minor vicissitudes of life flow into her own soul.
Then it would be easy. Now it was—
Suddenly Roberta sensed something wrong with a patch of deep shadow to the left of the trail. There was the semblance of solidity about that shadow, and then, even as her eyes tried to interpret what she saw, the figure that was almost hidden in the shadow moved.
Roberta screamed.
Bill Eldon, who had been sitting motionless, squatting on his heels cowboy-fashion, straightened himself with sinewy case.
“Now, don’t be frightened, ma’am,” he said. “I just wanted to talk with you.”
“You— You— How did you — find me here?”
“Now, take it easy,” Bill Eldon said, his eyes smiling. “I just thought you and I should have a little talk.”
“But how did you know where I was — where you could find me — where I was going to be? Why, even I didn’t know where I was going.”
Eldon said, “Figure it out, ma’am. This game trail follows the stream. The stream follows the canyon, and the canyon winds around. When I cut your tracks back there in the trail, I knew I only had to walk up over that saddle and come down here to gain half a mile on you. Now, suppose you sit down on that rock there and we just get sociable-like for a little while.”
“I’m sorry, sheriff, but I don’t feel like—”
“You’ve got to tell me what frightened you yesterday,” the sheriff insisted, kindly but doggedly.
“But I wasn’t frightened.”
Bill Eldon settled back on his heels once more. Apparently he was completely at case, thoroughly relaxed.
With the peculiar feeling that she was doing something entirely against her own volition, Roberta sat down.
Bill Eldon said, “Lots of people make a mistake about the mountains. When they’re out in the wilds with no one around they feel they’re hidden. They’re wrong. Wherever they go, they leave tracks.”
Roberta Coe said nothing.
When Bill Eldon saw she was not going to speak, he went on. “Now, you take that trail yesterday, for instance. It carried tracks just like a printed page. I came along that trail and saw where you’d been running. I saw where Frank Ames had put down his fishing rod and his creel and hurried after you. The way I figure it, you must have screamed and run past the hole where he was fishing just about the time he had a big one on.
“By getting up on the bank, looking down in the pool, I could see the submerged branches of that dead tree. Sure enough, on one of those branches was part of a leader, just wrapped around the snag, and a hook was on the end of the leader. Because I was curious, I took off my clothes, worked my way down into the water and got that fly out. Gosh, it was cold.”