"Boys," says Walter Parks, solemnly, swinging the lantern upon his arm and carefully wrapping the bit of match in a paper as he speaks, "poor Pearson was never killed by lightning. That sear upon his forehead was made by the simple application of a burning match. _I've_ seen men killed by lightning." "But you said--" "No matter what I said _then_, Joe; what I _now_ say to you and Menard is _the truth_. You have promised to keep what I am about to tell you a secret, and to act according to my advice. Menard, Blakesly, _Arthur Pearson has been foully murdered_!" "No!" "Parks, you are mad!" "You will believe the evidence of your own senses, boys. I am going to prove what I assert." "But who? how?--" "Who?--ah, that's the question! There are ten men of us; if the guilty party belongs to our train, we will ferret him out if possible. If we were to gather all our party here, and show them how poor Pearson met his death, the assassin, if he is among us, would be warned, and perhaps escape." "True." "Boys, I believe that the assassin _is_ among us; but I have not the faintest suspicion as to his identity. We are ten men brought together by circumstances. We three have known each other back there in the mining camps. The others are acquaintances of the road; good fellows so far as we know them: but nine of us ten are innocent men; _one is a murderer_! Come, now, and let me prove what I am saying." As men who feel themselves dreaming; silently, slowly, with anxious faces, they follow their leader to the wagon where the dead man lies alone. "Get into the wagon, boys; here, at this end, and move softly." It is done and the three men crouch close together about the body of the dead. "Hold the lantern, Joe. There, Menard lift his head." Silently, wonderingly, they obey him. Then Walter Parks removes the cap from the lifeless head, and shudderingly parts away the thick hair from about the crown. "Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look, both of you; do you see _that_?" They bend closer; the lantern's ray strikes upon something tiny and bright. "My God!" cries Joe Blakesly, letting the lantern fall and turning away his face. "Parks, what--_what_ is it?" "A _nail_! Touch it, boys; see the hellish cleverness of the crime; think what the criminal must be, to drive that nail home with one blow while poor Pearson lay sleeping, and then to rearrange the thick hair so skillfully. That was before the storm, I feel sure. If we had found him sooner, there might have been no mark upon his forehead. Then we, in our ignorance, would have called it heart disease, and poor Pearson would have had no avenger. After the storm, the cunning villain crept back, struck a match, and applied it to his victim's temple. And but for an accident, we would all have agreed that he was killed by a lightning-stroke." Menard lays the head gently back upon the damp hay and asks, shudderingly: "How did you discover it, Parks?"