Halting irresolutely a moment, Slavin presently faced about and returned.  “Wan harse on’y!” he vouchsafed to their silent looks of enquiry.  “He had not company.  Must have been shot from lift or right av th’ thrail.”  He stared around him at the bare sweep of ground.  “Now fwhere cud any livin’ man find cover here in th’ full av th’ moon, tu get th’ range wid a small arm?  He wud show up agin’ th’ snow like th’ ace av shpades an’ he thried.”

Suddenly his jaw dropped and he stiffened.  “Ah-hh!” His eyes rivetted themselves on some object and his huge arm shot out.  “Fwhat’s yon?”

They all stared in the direction he indicated.  Plastered with frosted snow, until it was all but undiscernible against its white background, lay an enormous boulder—­a relic, perchance, of some vast pre-historic upheaval.  It was situated at an oblique angle to the trail, about a hundred yards distant.

With stealthy, quickened steps Slavin made his way towards it.  Tensely they watched him.  In each man’s mind now was a vague feeling of certainty of something, they knew not what.  They saw him reach the boulder, walk round it and stoop, peering at its base for a few moments.  Then suddenly he straightened up and beckoned to them.

“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 sheet face-downwards upon the imprint he pressed down smartly.  The result was a very fair impression of the footmark, which he immediately outlined in pencil.