Late in the afternoon they carried Lee's body up the gulch a few yards and buried it in a shallow grave dug in the ice and snow, where it would have to lie until spring opened up again. The ground was frozen too hard to dig a grave being covered by a dozen feet of hard-packed snow and ice. -
Only Wentworth remained away from the simple funeral, sitting glumly by himself inside the cabin while Halligan mumbled, brokenly, as much as he could remember of the burial service.
It was late when they retired that night. All but Wentworth. He refused to eat any supper, throwing himself onto his bunk immediately after the others had finished eating, where he lay, scowling, his eyes staring into vacancy.
III
They slept fitfully. It was nearly morning when they were awakened by the sharp explosion of a gun. They leaped to their feet and one of them struck a match and lighted 3 flickering tallow candle.
Wentworth lay dead in his blankets. Over him hung a pall of acrid smoke.
He lay upon his back, a bullet hole in his temple, his lips drawn back in the same wolfish snarl he had worn during the day. On the floor beside him, where it had dropped from bis nerveless hand, lay his revolver.
Next morning they buried him in the snow beside the man who they were now sure had been his victim. And once more it was Halligan who was called upon to say a prayer.
Again he repeated his warning.
"Can't you see, boys," he mourned, "that the Lord visited his wrath upon Wentworth for his sins — just as he did upon Lee. A man's evil deeds will find him put. It's a warning for you all to repent before it's too late."
There was no work done that day. Even the dishes were allowed to go greasy and unwashed while they discussed again and again the various phases of the second tragedy that had befallen their little community. Wentworth had never been popular with the others, his moroseness and general tone of surly indifference to everything keeping him from being the general favorite that the profane but good-natured Lee had been. Yet it was hard to believe that he had stooped to murder.
As usual, it was Halligan, the born leader, who aroused them from their apathy. Putting the others to cleaning up the dishes, he cooked a hasty supper and compelled the three to eat with him.
"There's no use getting the doldrums," he admonished them. "They're dead, and sitting around mooning won't bring 'em back. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Of course, it's up to us to see that their heirs get their share of the mine after we've taken our wages out for working it. When we've fed and cleaned up the shack we'll have a game of cards and turn in early. I, for one, am sleepy."
So were they all, for, within an hour after they had eaten, the four of them were yawning vigorously. They crawled into their bunks, Halligan, who refused to sleep in the room where Lee and Wentworth had met their deaths, climbing into a spare bunk with the others.
Mason was the first to awaken next morning. He shouted for the others as he leaped out of his blankets and crawled into his clothes. Replenishing the logs in the fireplace in the living-room, he again yelled at the other three and turned his attention to breakfast.
A second later a loud cry from Kelly brought Halligan to his feet, while Mason ran in from the outer room.
For Drew lay dead in his bunk. Between his ribs, buried to the hilt, was a hunting-knife. And it was Mason's knife.
IV
Kelly carefully drew the knife from the wound and looked at the initials carved on the handle.
"So, 'twas you, after all, was it, you skunk?" he snarled at Mason. "You with your damned sneaking ways and your smooth, oily manner, eh? Though why you were fool enough to leave your knife stickin' in him is what I can't understand. Scared away, were you?"
Mason stepped back a pace, a look of amazement on his proud face. "I swear by the ever-living God, boys, that I am innocent!" he declared. "Why would I kill Drew?"
"Why — yes, why?" snorted Kelly, his eyes glittering. "For the same reason that you killed Lee and threw the blame for it onto poor Wentworth, damn your soul! I suppose that Halligan and I were to be the next, eh?" he went on. "With us out of the way you'd be a rich man. And then you could go back and marry Cora Hunter. Oh, I'm no fool."
Halligan, sitting on the edge of his bunk putting on his moccasins, said nothing. Kelly, his Celtic temper leaping to the surface, was intensely angry. Mason, too, was a man of hot passions, although he held them under better restraint than did the Irishman. He took a half-step toward his accuser.
"Kelly — and Halligan," he began in a level voice, "I didn't kill Drew, nor had I a hand in the death of Lee. It's just as much of a mystery to me how my knife got there as it is to you."
" 'Tis no mystery to me," snapped Kelly. "You put it there, you cur."
"You're a damned liar!"
Kelly leaped upon him, the knife he still held in his hand upraised. Mason's fist met him half-way, striking him squarely in the face, but failing to stop his rush.
With a lurid oath the burly Irishman jabbed the weapon into the other's side half a dozen times. With his bare fists Mason fought the other as best he could for a second or two. His fingers clutched weakly about his antagonist's windpipe. He struggled blindly for a second, fumbling feebly for a hold. Then his knees doubled under him and, with a dull moan, he sank to the floor at Kelly's feet.
Without a sign of undue haste, Halligan buckled his belt and holster about his waist. Coolly he unbuttoned the holster and drew the gun. He cocked the weapon and, with his finger on the trigger, waited for the others to settle their argument.
"Did you get him?" he asked, as Kelly stepped back and wiped the blood from his streaming nose.
"Yes, an' I'm damned glad of it — the swine!"
Before he could turn around, Halligan placed the muzzle of his gun against the back of the Irishman's head and pulled the trigger. A dazed expression crept over Kelly's face. The knife dropped from his hand. Then he fell in a heap across the body of his late antagonist.
Halligan replaced the weapon in its holster and felt of the Irishman's heart. Assuring himself that it had ceased to beat, he raised his eyes to Mason, who was staring at him dazedly.
"You saved my life, Halligan," the wounded man muttered thickly; "but you took so long doing it that he got me anyway. Much obliged — just — same."
Halligan grinned.
"If I did, I'm sorry," he remarked, cheerfully. " 'Cause then I'll have to finish you myself. It wouldn't do for you to live, you see, because you know too much. And, besides, I want everything for myself — the girl and the money both."
The dying man looked at him curiously. "You don't mean that it was you, Halligan? Great God! And I never suspected!"
Halligan sat down on the edge of his bunk and laughed good-humoredly as he unbuckled his gun and threw it across the foot of the bed.
"I don't mind telling you about it," he said quietly, "because you'll soon be where you can never tell."
He rolled a cigarette and, lighting it, inhaled a whiff before he continued: "You see, Mason, I figured out long ago that as soon as we struck it rich — and I felt sure that we would sooner or later — it would be a survival of the fittest. I knew that there was no chance for any of us with Cora until we had money. She's a selfish little devil, but she's worth fighting for. And, with all of us rich, we would be just where we started. But now it'll be me alone — just me.