Part 43 (2/2)

In spite of his bitterness Sheba felt a change in him. She seemed to have a glimpse of his turbid soul engaged in battle. He turned away without shaking hands, but it struck her that he was not implacable.

While they were at luncheon half a dozen pack-mules laden with supplies for a telephone construction line outfit had pa.s.sed. Their small, sharp-shod hoofs had punched sink-holes in the trail at every step.

Instead of a smooth bottom the dogs found a slushy bog cut to pieces.

At the end of an hour of wallowing Macdonald called a halt.

”There is a cutoff just below here. It will save us nearly two miles, but we'll have to break trail. Swing to the right just below the big willow,” he told Elliot. ”I'll join you presently and relieve you on the job. But first Miss O'Neill and I are going for a little side trip.”

All three of them looked at him in sharp surprise. Gordon opened his lips to answer and closed them again without speaking. Sheba had flashed a warning to him.

”I hope this trip isn't very far off the trail,” she said quietly. ”I'm just a wee bit tired.”

”It's not far,” the mine-owner said curtly.

He was busy unpacking his sled. Presently he found the dog moccasins for which he had been looking, repacked his sled, and fitted the shoes to the bleeding feet of the team leader. Elliot, suspicious and uncertain what to do, watched him at work, but at a signal from Sheba turned reluctantly away and drove down to the cutoff.

Macdonald turned his dogs out of the trail and followed a little ridge for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Sheba trudged behind him. She was full of wonder at what he meant to do, but she asked no questions. Some wise instinct was telling her to do exactly as he said.

From the sled he took a shovel and gave it to the young woman. ”Dig just this side of the big rock--close to the root of the tree,” he told her.

Sheba dug, and at the second stroke of the spade struck something hard.

He stooped and pulled out a sack.

”Open it,” he said. ”Rip it with this knife.”

She ran the knife along the coa.r.s.e weave of the cloth. Fifteen or twenty smaller sacks lay exposed. Sheba looked up at Macdonald, a startled question in her eyes.

He nodded. ”You've guessed it. This is part of the gold for which Robert Milton was murdered.”

”But--how did it get here?”

”I buried it there yesterday. Come.”

He led her around the rock. Back of it lay something over which was spread a long bit of canvas. The heart of Sheba was beating wildly.

The Scotchman looked at her from a rock-bound face. ”Underneath this canvas is the body of one of the men who murdered Milton. He died more miserably than the man he shot. Half the gold stolen from the bank is in that gunnysack you have just dug up. If you'll tell me who has the other half, I'll tell you who helped him rob the bank.”

”This man--who is he?” asked Sheba, almost in a whisper. She was trembling with excitement and nervousness.

Macdonald drew back the cloth and showed the rough, hard face of a workingman.

”His name was Trelawney. I kicked him out of our camps because he was a trouble-maker.”

”He was one of the men that robbed you later!” she exclaimed.

”Yes. And now he has tried to rob me again and has paid for it with his life.”

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