The Clue of the Screaming Woman

Part One

Frank Ames surveyed the tumbling mountain torrent and selected the rock he wanted with great care.

It was on the edge of the deep water, a third of the way across the stream, about sixty feet below the little waterfall and the big eddy. Picking his way over half-submerged stepping stones, then across the fallen log to the rounded rock, he made a few whipping motions with his fishing rod to get plenty of free line. He knew only too well how much that first cast counted.

Up here in the high mountains the sky was black behind the deep blue of interstellar space. The big granite rocks reflected light with dazzling brilliance, while the shadows seemed deep and impenetrable. Standing down near the stream, the roar of the water kept Frank Ames’ ears from accurately appraising other sounds, distorting them out of all semblance to reality.

The raucous abuse of a mountain jay sounded remarkably like the noise made by a buzz saw ripping through a pine board, and some peculiar vagary of the stream noises made Frank Ames feel he could hear a woman screaming.

Ames made his cast. The line twisted through the air, straightened at just the right distance above the water and settled. The Royal Coachman came to rest gently, seductively, on the far edge of the little whirlpool just below the waterfall.

For a moment the fly reposed on the water with calm tranquillity, drifting with the current. Then there was a shadowy dark streak of submerged motion. A big trout raised his head and part of his body up out of the water.

The noise made by the fish as it came down hard on the fly was a soul-gratifying “chooonk.” It seemed the fish had pushed its shoulders into a downward strike as it started back to the dark depths of the clear stream, the Royal Coachman in its mouth.

Ames set the hook and firmed his feet on the rock. The reel sounded like an angry rattlesnake. The line suddenly stretched taut. Even above the sound of the mountain stream, the hissing of the wire-tight line as it cut through the water was plainly audible.

The sound of a woman’s scream again mingled with the stream noises. This time the scream was louder and nearer.

The sound knifed through to Frank Ames’ consciousness. It was as annoying, as much out of place, as the ringing of a telephone bell at four o’clock in the morning. Frank desperately wanted that trout. It was a fine, big trout with a dark back, beautiful red sides, firm-fleshed from ice-cold, swift waters, and it was putting up a terrific fight.

That first time there had been some doubt as to the sound Ames had heard. It might have been the stream-distorted echo of a hawk crying out as it circled high in the heavens. But as to this second noise there could be no doubt. It was the scream of a woman, and it sounded from the trail along the east bank of the stream.

Ames turned to look over his shoulder, a hurried glance of apprehensive annoyance.

That one moment’s advantage was all the trout needed. With the vigilance of the fisherman relaxed for the flicker of an eyelash, the trout made a swift rush for the tangled limbs of the submerged tree trunk on the far end of the pool, timing his maneuver as though he had known the exact instant the fisherman had turned.

Almost automatically Ames tightened on the rod and started reeling in, but he was too late. He felt the sudden cessation of the surging tugs which come up the line through the wrist and into the arm in a series of impulses too rapid to count, but which are the very breath of life to the skilled fisherman. Instead, the tension of the line was firm, steady and dead.

Knowing that his leader was wrapped around a submerged branch, Ames pointed the rod directly at the taut line, applied sufficient pressure to break the slender leader, and then reeled in the line.

He turned toward the place from which the scream had sounded.

There was no sign of animation in the scenery. The high mountain crags brooded over the scene. A few fleecy clouds forming over the east were the only break in the tranquil blue of the sky. Long sweeps of majestic pines stretched in a serried sequence up the canyons, their needles oozing scent into the pure, dry air.

Ames, slender-waisted, long-legged, graceful in his motions, was like a deer bounding across the fallen log, jumping lightly to the water-splashed stepping stones.

He paused at the thin fringe of scrub pine which grew between the rocky approach to the stream and the winding trail long enough to divest himself of his fishing creel and rod. Then he moved swiftly through the small pines to where the trail ran in a north and south direction, roughly paralleling that of the stream.

The decomposed granite dust of the trail held tracks with remarkable fidelity. Superimposed over the older horse and deer tracks that were in the trail were the tracks made by a woman who had been running as fast as she could go.

At this elevation of more than seven thousand feet above sea level, where even ordinary exertion left a person breathless, it was evident either that the woman could not have been running far, or that she had lived long enough in this country to be acclimated to the altitude.

The shoes she was wearing, however, were apparently new cowboy boots, completely equipped with rubber heels, so new that even the pattern of the heel showed in the downhill portion of the trail.

For the most part, the woman had been running with her weight on her toes. When she came to the steep downhill pitch, however, her weight was back more on her heels, and the rubber heel caps made distinct imprints. After fifty yards, Ames saw that the tracks faltered. The strides grew shorter. Slowly, she had settled down to a rapid, breathless walk.

With the unerring instinct of a trained hunter, Ames followed those tracks, keeping to one side of the trail so that his tracks did not obliterate those of the hurrying woman. He saw where she had paused and turned, the prints of her feet at right angles to the trail as she looked back over her shoulder. Then, apparently more reassured, she had resumed her course, walking now at a less rapid rate.

Moving with a long, lithe stride which made him glide noiselessly, Frank Ames topped a rise, went down another short, steep pitch, rounded a turn in the pine trees and came unexpectedly on the woman, standing poised like some wild thing. She had stopped and was looking back, her startled face showing as a white oval.

She started to run, then paused, looked back again, stopped, and, as Ames came up, managed a dubious and somewhat breathless smile.

“Hello,” Ames said with the casual simplicity of a man who has the assurance of complete sincerity.

“Good afternoon,” she answered, then laughed, a short, oxygen-starved laugh. “I was taking — a quick walk.” She paused to get her breath, said, “Trying to give my figure some much-needed discipline.” Another pause for breath. “When you rounded the bend in the trail, you... you startled me.”

Ames’ eyes said there was nothing wrong with her figure, but his lips merely twisted in a slow grin.

She was somewhere in the middle twenties. The frontier riding breeches, short leather jacket, shirt open at the front, the bandanna around her neck, held in place with a leather loop studded with brilliants, showed that she was a “dude” from the city. The breeches emphasized the slenderness of her waist, the smooth, graceful contours of her hips and legs. The face was still pale, but the deep red of sunburn around the open line of the throat above the protection of the bandanna was as eloquent as a complete calendar to Frank’s trained eyes.

The sunburned skin told the story of a girl who had ridden in on a horseback pack trip, who had underestimated the powerful actinic rays of the mountain sun, who had tried too late to cover the sunburned V-shaped area with a scarf. A couple of days in the mountains and some soothing cream had taken some of the angry redness out of the skin, but that was all.

He waited to see if there would be some explanation of her scream or her flight. Not for worlds would he have violated the code of the mountains by trying to pry into something that was none of his business. When he saw she had no intention of making any further explanation, he said casually, “Guess you must have come up the trail from Granite Flats about Sunday. Didn’t you, ma’am?”

She looked at him with sudden apprehension. “How did you know?”

“I had an idea you might have been in the mountains just about that long, and I knew you didn’t come up from this end because I didn’t see the tracks of a pack train in the trail.”

“Can you follow tracks?” she asked.

“Why, of course.” He paused and then added casually, “I’m headed down toward where your camp must be. Perhaps you’d let me walk along with you for a piece.”

“I’d love it!” she exclaimed, and then with quick suspicion, “How do you know where our camp is?”

His slight drawl was emphasized as he thought the thing into words. “If you’d been camped at Coyote Springs, you’d need to have walked three miles to get here. You don’t look as though you’d gone that far. Down at Deerlick Springs, there’s a meadow with good grass for the horses, a nice camping place and it’s only about three quarters of a mile from here, so I—”

She interrupted with a laugh which now carried much more assurance. “I see that there’s no chance for me to have any secrets. Do you live up here?”

Frank wanted to tell her of the two years in the Japanese prison camp, of the necessity of living close to Nature to get his health and strength back, of the trap line which he ran through the winter, of the new-found strength and vitality that were erasing the disabilities caused by months of malnutrition. But when it came to talking about himself, the words dried up. All he could say was, “Yes, I live up here.”

She fell into step at his side. “You must find it isolated.”

“I don’t see many people,” he admitted, “but there are other things to make up for it — no telephones, no standing in line, no exhaust fumes.”

“And you’re content to be here always?”

“Not always. I want a ranch down in the valley. I’m completing arrangements for one now. A friend of mine is giving me a lease with a contract to purchase. I think I can pay out on it with luck and hard work.”

Her eyes were thoughtful as she walked along the trail, stepping awkwardly in her high-heeled cowboy riding boots. “I suppose really you can’t ask for much more than that — luck and hard work.”

“It’s all I want,” Frank told her.

They walked for some minutes in the silence of mutual appraisal, then rounded a turn in the trail, and Deerlick Meadows stretched out in front of them. And as soon as Frank Ames saw the elaborate nature of the camp, he knew these people were wealthy sportsmen who were on a de luxe trip. Suddenly awkward, he said, “Well, I guess I’d better turn—” And then stopped abruptly as he realized that it would never do to let this young woman know he had been merely escorting her along the trail. He had told her he was going in her direction. He’d have to keep on walking past the camp.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, and then added laughingly, “Mine’s Roberta Coe.”

“Frank Ames,” he said uncomfortably, knowing she had asked him his name so abruptly because she intended to introduce him to her companions.

“Well, you must come in and have a cup of coffee before you go on,” she said. “You’d like to meet my friends and they’d like to meet you.”

They had been seen now and Ames was aware of curious glances from people who were seated in folding canvas chairs, items of luxury which he knew could have been brought in only at much cost to the tourist and at much trouble to both packer and pack horse.

He tried to demur, but somehow the right words wouldn’t come, and he couldn’t let himself seem to run away. Even while he hesitated, they entered the camp, and he found himself meeting people with whom he felt awkwardly ill at ease.

Harvey W. Dowling was evidently the business executive who was footing the bills. He, it seemed, was in his tent, taking a siesta and the hushed voices of the others showed the fawning deference with which they regarded the man who was paying the bills. His tent, a pretentious affair with heating stove and shaded entrance, occupied a choice position, away from the rest of the camp, a small tributary stream winding in front, and the shady pine thicket immediately in the back.

The people to whom Ames was introduced were the type a rich man gathers around him, people who were careful to cultivate the manners of the rich, who clung tenaciously to their contacts with the wealthy.

Now these people, carefully subdued in voice and manner, so as not to disturb the man in the big tent, had that amused, patronizing tolerance of manner which showed they regarded Frank Ames merely as a novel interlude rather than as a human being.

Dick Nottingham had a well-nourished, athletic ease of manner, a smoothly muscled body and the calm assurance of one who is fully conscious of his eligibility. Two other men, Alexander Cameron and Sam Fremont, whose names Ames heard mentioned, were evidently downstream fishing.

The women were young, well-groomed and far more personal in their curiosity. Eleanor Dowling relied on her own beauty and her father’s wealth to display a certain arrogance. Sylvia Jessup had mocking eyes which displayed challenging invitation as she sized up Frank’s long, rangy build.

Conscious of his faded blue shirt and overalls with the patched knees, Frank felt distinctly ill at ease, and angry at himself because he did. He would have given much to have been articulate enough to express himself, to have joined in casual small talk; but the longer he stayed the more awkward and tongue-tied he felt, and that in turn made him feel more and more conspicuous.

There was good-natured banter. Sylvia Jessup announced that after this she was going to walk in the afternoons and see if she couldn’t bag a little game, veiled references to open season and bag limit; then light laughter. And there were casually personal questions that Ames answered as best he could.

Whenever they would cease their light banter, and in the brief period of silence wait for Frank Ames to make some comment, Frank angrily realized his tongue-tied impotence, realized from the sudden way in which they would all start talking at once that they were trying to cover his conversational inadequacy.

Sam Fremont, camera in hand, came into camp almost unnoticed. He had, he explained, been hunting wildlife with his camera, and he grinningly admitted approaching camp quietly so he could get a couple of “candid camera” shots of the “sudden animation.”

He was a quick-eyed opportunist with a quick wit and fast tongue, and some of his quips brought forth spontaneous laughter. After one particularly loud burst of merriment, the flap of the big tent parted and Harvey W. Dowling, scowling sleepily at the group, silenced them as effectively as would have been the case if some grim apparition had suddenly appeared.

But he came down to join them, a figure of heavy power, conscious of the deference due him, boomingly cordial to Frank, and with regal magnanimity saying nothing of the loud conversation which had wakened him.

A few moments later Alexander Cameron came stumbling up the trail, seeming to fall all over his heavy leather boots, boots that were stiff with newness. He seemed the most inexperienced of them all, and yet the most human, the one man who seemed to have no fear of Dowling.

There were more introductions, an abrupt cessation of the banter, and a few minutes later Ames found himself trudging angrily away from the camp, having offered the first excuse which came to his tortured mind, that he must inspect a site for a string of traps, knowing in his own mind how utterly inane the reason sounded, despite the fact that these people from the city would see nothing wrong with it.

Once clear of the camp, Frank circled up Deerlick Creek and cut back toward the main trail of the North Fork, so that he could retrieve his rod and creel.

He knew that it was too late now to try any more fishing. The white, woolly clouds had grown into great billowing mushrooms. Already there was the reverberation of distant thunder echoing from the high crags up at the divide and ominous black clouds were expanding out from the bases of the cloud mushrooms.

The thunderstorm struck just as Ames was crossing the top of the ridge which led down to the main trail.

The first patter of heavy raindrops gave a scant warning. A snake’s tongue of ripping lightning dissolved a dead pine tree across the valley into a shower of yellow splinters. The clap of thunder was almost instantaneous, and, as though it had torn loose the inner lining of the cloud, rain deluged down in torrents until the sluicing streams forging their way down the slope were heavy with mud.

Knowing better than to seek shelter under a pine tree, Ames ran along the base of a granite ridge until he found the place where an overhanging rock, sandblasted by winds and worn by the elements, offered a place where he could crawl in and stretch out.

The lightning glittered with greenish intensity. The thunder bombarded the echoing crags and rain poured in cascades from the lip of the rock under which Ames had taken shelter.

Within ten minutes the heaviest part of the rain had ceased. The thunder began to drift sullenly to the south, but the rain continued steadily, then intensified into a clearing-up shower of cloudburst proportions and ceased abruptly. Half a minute later a venturesome shaft of afternoon sunlight explored its way into the glistening pines.

Ames crawled from under his protecting rock and resumed his way down the slippery slope to the main trail.

The soaking rain had obliterated the tracks in the trail. In fact, the ditchlike depression in the center of the trail still held puddles of water, so Ames, so far as he was able, kept to one side, working his way between rocks, conscious of the sudden chill in the atmosphere, conscious also of the fact that the clouds were gathering for another downpour, one that could well last all night.

Ames found his fishing rod and creel where he had left them. He slipped the soggy strap of the creel over his shoulder, started to pick up the rod, then stopped. His woodsman’s eyes told him that the position of the rod had been changed since he had left it. Had it perhaps been the wind which accompanied the storm? He had no time to debate the matter, for once more raindrops began to patter ominously.

Picking up his rod, he swung into a long, rapid stride, the rain whipping against his back as he walked. He knew that there was no use trying to wait out this show. This would be a steady, sodden rain.

By the time Frank Ames reached his cabin he was wet to the skin.

He put pine-pitch kindling and dry wood into the stove, and soon had a roaring fire. He lit the gasoline lantern, divested himself of his wet clothes, took the two medium-sized fish from the creel and fried them for supper. He read a magazine, noticed casually that the rain on the cabin roof stopped about nine-thirty, listened to the news on the radio and went to bed. His sleep was punctuated with dreams of women who screamed and ran aimlessly through the forest, of shrewd-eyed city men who regarded him with patronizing cordiality, of snub-nosed, laughing-eyed women who pursued him with pronged spears, their mouths giving vent to sardonic laughter.

Ames was up with the first grayness of morning. The woodshed yielded dry wood, and, as the aroma of coffee filled the little cabin, Ames poured water into the jar of sour dough, thickened the water with flour, beat it to just the right consistency and poured out sourdough hot cakes.

He had finished with the breakfast dishes and the chores, and was contemplating the stream which danced by in the sunlight just beyond the long shadows of the pine trees, when his eyes suddenly rested with startled disbelief on the two rounded manzanita pegs which had been driven into holes drilled in the wall of the log cabin.

The .22 rifle, with its telescopic sight, was missing.

The space immediately below, where his .30-.30 rifle hung suspended from pegs, was as usual, and the .30-.30 was in place. Only the place where the .22 should have been was vacant.

Ames heard steps outside the door. A masculine voice called, “Hello! Anyone home?”

“Who is it?” Ames called, whirling.

The form of Sheriff Bill Eldon was framed in the doorway.

“Howdy,” he said. “Guess I should drop in and introduce myself. I’m Bill Eldon, sheriff of the county.”

Ames took in the spare figure, tough as gristle, straight as a lodgepole pine, a man who was well past middle age, but who moved with the easy, lithe grace of a man in his thirties, a man who carried not so much as an ounce of unnecessary weight, whose eyes, peering out from under shaggy eyebrows, had the same quality of fierce penetration which is so characteristic of the hawks and eagles, yet his manner and voice were mild.

“I’m camped up the stream a piece with a couple of head of pack stock,” the sheriff said, “just riding through. This country up here is in my county and I sort of make a swing around through it during the fishing season. I was up here last year, but missed you. They said you were in town.”

Ames stretched out his hand. “Come right in, sheriff, and sit down. Ames is my name. I’m mighty glad to know you. I’ve heard about you.”

Bill Eldon thanked him, walked over to one of the homemade chairs built from pine slabs and baling wire, settled himself comfortably, rolled a cigarette. “Been up here long?”

“Couple of years. I run a trap line in the winters. I have a small allowance and I’m trying to stretch it as far as possible so I can build up health and a bank account at the same time — just enough for operating capital.”

Eldon crossed his legs, said, “Do you get around the country much?”

“Some.”

“Seen the folks camped down below?”

“Yes. I met some of them yesterday. I guess they came in the other way.”

“That’s right. Quite an outfit. Know any of the people camped up above?”

“I didn’t know there were any.”

“I didn’t know there were either,” the sheriff said, and then was quiet.

Ames cocked an eyebrow in quizzical interrogation.

“Seen anybody up that way?” Eldon asked.

“There are some folks camped up on Squaw Creek, but that’s six miles away. A man and his wife.”

“I know all about them,” the sheriff said. “I met them on the trail. Haven’t seen anything of a man about thirty-five, dark hair, stubby, close-cut mustache, gray eyes, about a hundred and sixty pounds, five feet, eight or nine inches tall, wearing big hobnail boots with wool socks rolled down over the tops of the boots — new boots?”

Ames shook his head.

“Seems as though he must have been camped up around here somewhere,” the sheriff said.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Mind taking a little walk with me?” the sheriff asked.

Ames, suddenly suspicious, said, “I have a few chores to do. I—”

“This is along the line of business,” the sheriff answered, getting up out of the chair with the casual, easy grace of a wild animal getting to its feet.

“If you put it that way, I guess we’ll let the chores go,” Ames said.

They left the cabin and swung up the trail. Ames’ long legs moved in the steady rhythm of space-devouring strides. The sheriff kept pace with him, although his shorter legs made him take five strides to the other man’s four.

For some five minutes they walked silently, walking abreast where the trail was wide; then as the trail narrowed, the sheriff took the lead, setting a steady, unwavering pace.

Abruptly Bill Eldon held up his hand as a signal to halt. “Now from this point on,” he said, “I’d like you to be kind of careful about not touching things. Just follow me.”

He swung from the side of the trail, came to a little patch of quaking asp and a spring.

A man was stretched on the ground by the spring, lying rigid and inert.

Eldon circled the body. “I’ve already gone over the tracks,” he said. And then added dryly, “There ain’t any, except the ones made by his own boots, and they’re pretty faint.”

“What killed him?” Ames asked.

“Small-caliber bullet, right in the side of the head,” the sheriff said.

Ames stood silently looking at the features discolored by death, the stubby mustache, the dark hair, the new hobnail boots with the wool socks turned down over the tops.

“When... when did it happen?”

“Don’t rightly know,” the sheriff said. “Apparently it happened before the thunderstorm yesterday. Tracks are pretty well washed out. You can see where he came running down this little slope. Then he jumped to one side and then to the other. Didn’t do him no good. He fell right here. But the point is, his tracks are pretty indistinct, almost washed out by that rainstorm. If it hadn’t been for the hobnails on his new boots, I doubt if we’d have noticed his tracks at all.

“Funny thing is,” the sheriff went on, “you don’t see any stock. He must have packed in his little camp stuff on his back. Pretty husky chap but he doesn’t look like a woodsman.”

Ames nodded.

“Wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?” the sheriff asked.

Ames shook his head.

“Happened to be walking down the stream yesterday afternoon just a little bit before the rain came up,” the sheriff said. “Didn’t see this fellow’s tracks anywhere in the trail and didn’t see any smoke. Wouldn’t have known he had a camp here if it hadn’t been for—”

Abruptly the sheriff ceased speaking.

“I was fishing yesterday,” Ames said.

“I noticed it,” the sheriff said. “Walked by your cabin but you weren’t there. Then I walked on down the trail, caught the glint of sunlight from the reel on your fishing rod.”

Eldon’s silence was an invitation.

Ames laughed nervously and said, “Yes, I took a hike down the trail and didn’t want to be burdened with the rod and the creel.”

“Saw the leader was broken on the fishing rod,” the sheriff commented. “Looked as though maybe you’d tangled up with a big one and he’d got away — leader twisted around a bit and frayed. Thought maybe you’d hooked on to a big one, over in that pool and he might have wrapped the leader around some of the branches on that fallen tree over at the far end.”

“He did, for a fact,” Ames admitted ruefully.

“That puzzled me,” the sheriff said. “You quit right there and then, without even taking off the broken leader. You just propped your fishin’ rod up against the tree and hung your creel on a forked limb, fish and all. Tracks showed you’d been going pretty fast.”

“I’m a fast walker.”

“Uh-huh,” Eldon said. “Then you hit the trail. There was tracks made by a woman in the trail. She was running. I saw your tracks following.”

“I can assure you,” Ames said, trying to make a joke of it, “that I wasn’t chasing any woman down the trail.”

“I know you weren’t,” Eldon said. “You were studying those tracks, kind of curious about them, so you kept to one side of the trail where you could move along and study them. You’d get back in the trail once or twice where you had to and then your tracks would be over those of the woman, but for the most part you were, sort of trailing her.”

“Naturally,” Ames said, “I was curious.”

“I didn’t follow far enough to see whether you caught up with her,” the sheriff said. “I saw the rain clouds piling up pretty fast and I hightailed it back to my camp and got things lashed down around the tent. Of course,” the sheriff went on, “I don’t suppose you know how close you were to that running woman?”

“The tracks looked fresh,” Ames said.

“Thought you might have seen her as she went by,” the sheriff said. “Thought that might have accounted for the way you went over to the trail in such a hurry. You were walking pretty fast. Then I went back to the place where you must have been standing on that rock where you could get a good cast, up by the eddy below the waterfall, and darned if you could see the trail from there! It runs within about fifty yards, but there’s a growth of scrub pine that would keep you from seeing anyone.”

Ames was uncomfortable. Why should he protect Roberta Coe? Why not tell the sheriff frankly what he had heard? He realized he was playing with fire in withholding this information, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to come right out and say what he knew he should be saying.

“So,” the sheriff said, “I sort of wondered what made you drop everything in such a hurry and go over to the trail and start taking up the tracks of this woman. Just a lot of curiosity. Sort of felt I was snooping, but, after all, snooping is my business.”

Once more the sheriff’s silence invited confidence from Frank Ames.

“Well,” the sheriff went on after a few moments, “I got up this morning and thought I’d stop down and pay you a visit, and then coming down the trail I saw a long streak down the side of the hill. It had been rained on but you could see it was a fresh track where someone had dragged something. I looked over here and found this camp. He’d dragged in a big dead log that he was aiming to chop up for firewood. Thought at first it might have been a sort of a tenderfoot trick because he only had a little hand ax, but after looking the camp over, I figured he might not have been quite so green as those new boots would make you think. Evidently he intended to build a fire under the middle of this log and as the two ends burned apart he’d shove the logs up together — make a little fire that way that would keep all night. He didn’t have any tent, just a bedroll with a good big tarp. It’s pretty light weight but it would turn water if you made a lean-to and was careful not to touch it any place while it was raining.”

“You... you know who he is?” Ames asked.

“Not yet, I don’t,” the sheriff admitted. “So far I’ve just looked around a bit. I don’t want to do any monkeying with the things in his pockets until I get hold of the coroner. Too bad that rain came down just when it did. I haven’t been able yet to find where the man stood that did the shooting.”

“How long ago did you find him?”

“Oh, an hour or two, maybe a little longer. I’ve got to ride over to the forest service telephone and I thought I’d go call on you. Now that you’re here, I guess the best thing to do is to leave you in charge while I go telephone. You can look around some if you want to, because I’ve already covered the ground, looking for tracks, but don’t touch the body and don’t let anyone else touch it.”

Ames said, “I suppose I can do it if... if I have to.”

“Isn’t a very nice sort of a job to wish off on a man,” the sheriff admitted, “but at a time like this we all of us have to pull together. I’ve got to go three, four miles to get to that ranger station and put a call in. My camp’s up here about three quarters of a mile. I’ve got a pretty good saddle horse and it shouldn’t take long to get up there and back.”

“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?”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Ames asked.

“Everything,” Nottingham said, and then added, “Frankly, I’m skeptical. While I’m on vacation right now, I’m a lawyer by profession, and your story doesn’t make sense to me.”

Ames said quietly, “I don’t give a damn whether it makes sense to you or not. If you don’t think the sheriff’s actions were logical, take it up with the sheriff, but don’t try to argue with me about it because in just about a minute you’re going to have to do a lot of backing up.”

Nottingham said, “I don’t back up for anyone,” but his eyes were cautious as he sized up Frank Ames as a boxer sizes up an opponent in the ring.

There was contrast in the two types; Nottingham well-fed, heavily muscled, broad of shoulder; Frank Ames slender, lithe with stringy muscles. Nottingham had well-muscled weight; Ames had rawhide endurance.

Abruptly the tension was broken by steps and H. W. Dowling called out from the trail, “What’s everyone doing over there?”

“There’s been a murder, father,” Eleanor said.

Dowling pushed his way through the scrub pines. “This damned altitude gets me. What’s the trouble?”

Eleanor explained the situation.

“All right,” Dowling said, “let’s keep away from the place.” He paused to catch his breath. “We don’t want to get mixed up in any of this stuff.” Again he paused for breath. “Who’s the sheriff?”

“Bill Eldon,” Ames said. “I think he visited your camp.”

“Oh, yes,” Dowling said, and his patronizing smile was as eloquent as words. “Dehydrated old coot. Where’s he gone?”

“To notify the coroner.”

“Well, I want everyone in my party to keep away from that body. That includes you, Dick. Understand?”

“Yes, H. W.,” Nottingham said, suddenly meek.

“And,” Dowling went on, “under the circumstances, I think we’ll wait.” He paused for two or three breaths, then added, “Until the sheriff gets back.” His eyes swiveled to glower at Ames. “Any objection, young man?”

“Not in the least,” Ames said. “Just so you don’t mess up the evidence.”

“Humph,” Dowling said, and sat down, breathing heavily.

More voices sounded on the trail. A carefree, casual, man’s laugh sounded garishly incongruous.

Dowling raised his voice and called out, “We’re in here, Sam.”

Crunching steps sounded on the decomposed granite, and Alexander Cameron and Sam Fremont came to join the party.

The abrupt cessation of their conversation, the startled consternation on their faces as they saw the body seemed to revive the shock of the others. A period of uncomfortable silence spread over the group.

Alexander Cameron, his equipment stiff and new, from the high-topped boots to the big sheath knife strapped to his belt, seemed about to become ill. Sam Fremont, quickly adjusting himself to the situation, let his restless eyes move in a quick survey from face to face, as though trying to ferret out the secret thoughts of the others.

Roberta Coe moved over to Frank Ames’ side, drew him slightly away, said in a whisper, “I suppose it’s too much to ask, but... could you... well... give me a break about what happened yesterday?”

“I’ve already covered for you,” Frank Ames said, a note of anger showing in his voice, despite the fact that it was carefully lowered so the others could not hear. “I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I stuck my neck out and—”

“Roberta!” Dowling said peremptorily. “Come over here!”

“Yes, H. W. Just a moment.”

Dowling’s eyes were narrowed. “Now!” he snapped. “I want you.”

The tension was for a moment definitely noticeable to all. Roberta Coe’s hesitancy, Dowling’s steady, imperative eyes boring into hers, holding her in the inflexible grip of his will.

“Now,” Dowling repeated.

“Yes, H. W.,” Roberta Coe said, and moved away from Frank Ames.

Sheriff Bill Eldon, squatting on his heels cowboy fashion on the side of the ridge, kept to the concealing shadows of the pine fringe just in front of the jagged rock backbone. John Olney, the ranger, sat beside him.

Here the slope was carpeted by pine needles and deeply shaded. Fifty yards back the towering granite ridge reflected the sunlight with such blinding brilliance that anyone looking up from below would see only the glaring white, and unless he happened to be a trained hunter, could never force his eyes to penetrate into the shadows.

The sheriff slowly lowered his binoculars.

“What do you see?” Olney asked.

Bill Eldon said, “Well, he ain’t going to walk into our trap. He found the gun all right, looked it over and then let it lay there. Now all these other folks have come up and it looks like they aim to stick around.”

“It’s his gun?”

“I figure it that way — sort of figured that if he had been mixed up in it, he’d try to hide the gun. He wouldn’t know we’d found it and he’d figure the safest thing to do would be to hide it.”

“I still think he’ll do just that,” Olney said.

The sheriff said, “Nope, he’s lost his chance now. Somehow I just can’t get that gun business straight. If Ames had done the killing and it’s his gun, you’d think he’d either have hidden it or taken it back home. The way it is now, somebody must have wiped it clean of fingerprints, then dropped it, walked off and left it. That someone had to be either pretty lucky or a pretty fair woodsman; knew that a storm was coming up and knew a heavy rain would wash out all the tracks. Hang it, I thought Ames would give us a lead when he found that gun. Guess we’ve got to figure out a new approach. Well, let’s go on back and tell him we’ve phoned the coroner.”

“When do you reckon Coroner Logan will get here?”

“Going to take him a while,” the sheriff said. “Even if he gets a plane, he’s got a long ride.”

“We just going to wait?”

“Not by a damn sight,” Eldon said cheerfully. “We ain’t supposed to move the body or take anything out of the pockets until the coroner gets here, but I’m not going to sit on my haunches just waiting around. Let’s be kind of careful sneaking back to our horses. We wouldn’t want ’em to know we’d been watching! There’s a lot more people down there now.”

“City guys,” Olney said, snorting.

“I know, but they all have eyes, and the more pairs of eyes there are, the more chance there is of seeing motion. Just take it easy now. Keep in the shadows and back of the trees.”

They worked their way back around the slope carefully.

Bill Eldon led the way to the place where their horses had been tied. The men tightened the cinches and swung into their saddles. “We don’t want to hit that trail too soon,” Sheriff Eldon announced. “Some of those people might be smart enough to follow our tracks back a ways.”

“Not those city folks,” Olney said, and laughed.

“Might not be deliberately backtracking us,” Bill Eldon said, “but they might hike back up the trail. If they do, and should find they ran out of horse tracks before they got very far, even a city dude might get suspicious. Remember when they came walking up the trail, that chap in the sweater stopped when he came to the point where the tracks led up to the place we found the body. He’s probably been around the hills some.”

“Been around as a dude,” Olney said scornfully, “but perhaps we’d better ride up a mile or so before we hit the trail.”

“How do you figure this Ames out?” asked the sheriff.

Olney put his horse into a jog trot behind the sheriff’s fast-stepping mount. “There’s something wrong with him. He broods too much. He’s out there alone and— Well, I always did think he was running away from someone. I think maybe he’s on the lam. I’ve stopped in on him a few times. He’s never opened up. That ain’t right. When a man’s out here in the hills all alone he gets lonesome, and he should talk his head off when he gets a chance to visit with someone.”

Sheriff Eldon merely grunted.

“I think he’s running away,” Olney insisted.

The ridge widened and the ranger put his horse alongside the sheriff.

“Sometimes people try running away from themselves,” the sheriff said. “They go hide out someplace, thinking they’re running away. Then they find — themselves.”

“Well, this man, Ames, hasn’t found anything yet.”

“You can’t ever tell,” Bill Eldon rejoined. “When a man gets out with just himself and the stars, the mountains, the streams and the trees, he sort of soaks up something of the eternal bigness of things. I like the way he looks you in the eye.

“When you’re figurin’ on clues you don’t just figure on the things that exist. You figure on the people who caused ’em to exist.” And Bill Eldon, keeping well to one side of the trail, gently touched the spurs to the flanks of his spirited horse and thereby terminated all further conversation.