xclamations from
the men, and two of them, flinging off the mittens of their right hands,
levelled their rifles at him.

"Come on, you red-handed murderer, you," one of them, a black-bearded
man, commanded. "An' jest pitch that gun of yourn in the snow."

Smoke hesitated, then dropped his rifle and came up to them.

"Go through him, Louis, an' take his weapons," the black-bearded man
ordered.

Louis was a French-Canadian voyageur, Smoke decided, as were four of
the others. His search revealed only Smoke's hunting knife, which was
appropriated.

"Now, what have you got to say for yourself, stranger, before I shoot
you dead?" the black-bearded man demanded.

"That you're making a mistake if you think I killed that man," Smoke
answered.

A cry came from one of the voyageurs. He had quested along the trail and
found Smoke's tracks where he had left it to take refuge on the bank.
The man explained the nature of his find.

"What'd you kill Joe Kinade for?" he of the black beard asked.

"I tell you I didn't--" Smoke began.

"Aw, what's the good of talkin'? We got you red-handed. Right up there's
where you left the trail when you heard him comin'. You laid among
the trees an' bushwhacked him. A short shot. You couldn't 'a' missed.
Pierre, go an' get that gun he dropped."

"You might let me tell what happened," Smoke objected.

"You shut up," the man snarled at him. "I reckon your gun'll tell the
story."

All the men examined Smoke's rifle, ejecting and counting the
cartridges, and examining the barrel at muzzle and breech.

"One shot," Blackbeard concluded.

Pierre, with nostrils that quivered and distended like a deer's, sniffed
at the breech.

"Him one fresh shot," he said.

"The bullet entered his back," Smoke said. "He was facing me when he was
shot. You see, it came from the other bank."

Blackbeard considered this proposition for a scant second, and shook his
head. "Nope. It won't do. Turn him around to face the other bank--that's
how you whopped him in the back. Some of you boys run up an' down the
trail, and see if you can see any tracks making for the other bank."

Their report was that on that side the snow was unbroken. Not even a
snow-shoe rabbit had crossed it. Blackbeard, bending over the dead man,
straightened up, with a woolly, furry wad in his hand. Shredding this,
he found imbedded in the center the bullet which had perforated the
body. Its nose was spread to the size of a half dollar,