“I’ll wait,” Ames said.
“Thanks,” the sheriff told him, and without another word turned and swung silently down the slope to the trail and vanished.
Ames, his mind in a turmoil, stood silently contemplating the scenery with troubled eyes that were unable to appreciate the green pines silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, the patches of brilliant sunlight, the dark, somber segments of deep shadow.
A mountain jay squawked raucously from the top of a pine, teetering back and forth as though by the very impetus of his body muscles he could project his voice with greater force.
The corpse lay stiff and still, wrapped in the quiet dignity of death. The shadow of a near-by pine marched slowly along until it rested on the dead man’s face, a peaceful benediction.
Ames moved restlessly, at first aimlessly, then more deliberately, looking for tracks.
His search was fruitless. There were only the tracks of the sheriff’s distinctive, high-heeled cowboy boots, tracks which zigzagged patiently around a complete circle. Whatever previous tracks had been on the ground had been washed out by the rain. Had the murderer counted on that? Had the crime been committed when the thunderheads were piled up so ominously that he knew a deluge was impending?
Ames widened his circle still more, suddenly came to a halt as sunlight glinted on blued steel. He hurriedly surveyed the spot where the gun was lying.
This was quite evidently the place where the murderer had lain in ambush, behind a fallen pine.
Here again there were no tracks because the rain had washed them away, but the .22 caliber rifle lay in plain sight. Apparently the sheriff had overlooked it. He doubted that he himself would have seen the gun had it not been for that reflecting glint cast by the sunlight.
The fallen log offered an excellent means of approach without leaving tracks.
Ames stepped carefully on the dead roots which had been pulled up when the tree was blown over, worked his way to the top of the log, then moved silently along the rough bark.
The gun was a .22 automatic with a telescopic sight, and the single empty shell which had been ejected by the automatic mechanism glinted in the sunlight a few feet beyond the place where the gun was lying.
Ames lay at length on the log so he could look down at the gun.
There was a scratch on the stock, a peculiar indentation on the lock where it had at one time been dropped against a rock. The laws of probability would not admit of two weapons marked exactly like that.
For as much as five minutes Ames lay there pondering the question as to what he should do next. Apparently the sheriff had not as yet discovered the gun. It would be a simple matter to hook a forked stick under the trigger guard, pick the gun up without leaving any trace, put it in some safe place of concealment, then clean the barrel and quietly return it to the wall of his own cabin.
Ames pondered the matter for several minutes, then pushed himself up to his hands and knees, then back to his feet and ran back down the log, afraid that the temptation might prove too great for him. He retraced his steps back to a position where he could watch both the main trail and the spot where the body lay.
Some thirty minutes later Ames heard the sound of voices, a carefree, chattering babble which seemed oddly out of place with the tragic events which had taken place in the little sun-swept valley.
Ames moved farther back into the shadows so as to avoid the newcomers.
Ames could hear a voice which he thought was that of Dick Nottingham saying quite matter-of-factly, “I notice a couple of people are ahead of us on the trail. See the tracks? Let’s wait a minute. They turn off right here. They look like fresh tracks — made since the rain. Hello, there!”
One of the girls laughed nervously. “Do you want reinforcements, Dick?”
“Just good woodcraft,” Nottingham said in a tone of light banter. “Old Eagle Scout Nottingham on the job. Can’t afford to lead you into an ambush. Hello, anyone home?”
Ames heard him coming forward, the steps alternately crunching on the patches of open decomposed granite and then fading into nothing on the carpeted pine needles. “I say,” Nottingham called, “is anyone in here?”
Ames strove to make his voice sound casual. “I wouldn’t come any farther.”
The steps stopped, then Nottingham’s cautious voice, “Who’s there?”
“Frank Ames. I wouldn’t come any farther.”
“Why not?”
“There’s been a little trouble here. I’m watching the place for the sheriff.”
Nottingham hesitated a moment. Then his steps came forward again so that he was in full view. “What happened?” he asked.
“A man was shot,” Ames said in a low voice. “I don’t think it’s a good place for the women and I think your party had better stay on the trail.”
“What is it, Dick?” someone called softly, and Ames felt a sudden thrill as he identified Roberta Coe’s voice.
“Apparently there’s some trouble in here. I guess we’d better get back to the trail,” Nottingham called out. “A man’s been shot.”
Eleanor Dowling said, “Nonsense. We’re not babies. The woman who needed her smelling salts went out of fashion years ago. What is it?”
Ames walked over to the trail. “Hello,” he said self-consciously.
They acknowledged his salutation. There was a certain tension of awkward restraint, and Ames briefly explained what had happened.
“We were just taking a walk up the trail,” Nottingham said. “We saw your tracks and then they turned off. There was someone with you?”
“The sheriff,” Ames said.
Nottingham said, “Look here, old man, I’m sorry, but I think you owe us a little more explanation than that. We see the tracks of two men up the trail. Then we find one man standing alone and one man dead. You tell us that the sheriff has been with you, but we should have a little more than your word for it.”
“Take a look for yourself,” Ames said, “but don’t try to touch the body. You can look at the dead man’s shoes. They’re full of hobnails.”
Roberta Coe held back, but Nottingham, Eleanor Dowling and Sylvia Jessup pushed forward curiously.
“No closer than that!” Ames said.
“Who are you to give us orders?” Nottingham flared, circling the body.
“The sheriff left me in charge.”
“Well, I don’t see any badge, and as far as I’m concerned, I—”
He stepped forward.
Ames interposed himself between Nottingham and the inert figure. “I said to keep back.”
Nottingham straightened, anger in his eyes. “Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice, you damned lout!”
“Just keep back,” Ames said quietly.
“Why, you poor fool,” Nottingham blazed. “I used to be on the boxing team in college. I could—”
“You just keep back,” Ames interrupted quietly, ominously.
Sylvia Jessup, acting as peacemaker, said, “I’m sure you’ll understand Mr. Ames’ position, Dick. He was left here by the sheriff.”
“He says he was. I’m just making certain. Where did the sheriff go?”
Ames remained silent.
Sylvia pushed Nottingham to one side. “Where did the sheriff go, Mr. Ames?”
“He went to phone the coroner.”
“Were you with him when the body was discovered?”
“No, the sheriff found the body, then came and got me, and then went to the ranger station to telephone.”
Nottingham’s voice and manner showed his skepticism. “You mean the sheriff discovered the body, then he walked away and left the body all alone to go down and get you at your cabin, and then after all that, went to notify the coroner?”