"Thread in file," he called out warningly. Yorke led, and, treading
heedfully in each other's foot-marks, they reached the spot. Slavin
silently pointed downwards. There, plainly discernible on the surface of
the wind-packed, hard-crusted snow, were the corrugated imprints of
overshoed feet--coming and going apparently in the direction of the
previously mentioned coulee.

Redmond indicated two rounded impressions at the foot of the boulder,
with two smaller ones behind. "Must have hunched himself on his knees
behind, eh?" he queried in a low voice.

Slavin nodded. The rays of the westering sun coming from back of a cloud
glinted on something in the snow, a few feet away from the tracks. It
caught Yorke's eyes and with an exclamation he picked it up.

"_--gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled--_"

he quoted. "Here you are, Burke!"

Slavin uttered a delighted oath as he examined the small, bottle-necked
shell of the automatic variety. ".38 Luger!" he said. "A high-pressure
'gat' like that is oncommon hereabouts!" Passing it on to the coroner he
whistled softly. "My God! Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is ut
that--even allowin' for th' moonlight--can pick a man off thru' th' head
wid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan shell on'y? . . . 'Soapy
Smith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!"

He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then,
producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out the
type-written sheets of foolscap therein. Placing the blank side of the