"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as he reached the guide's side. "It's _murder_--thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot. "But who could--" "Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep back--don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe thar's some sign left." "Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively. "'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This 'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more." Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle--and taught its meaning, the members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground. Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow deepened, and his lip curled with triumph. Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet, during the stay at the sick-camp. Of course no _trail_ had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets. Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a knife--the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather was stained here and there with blood. "He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise. Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny point of something yellow had caught his keen eye. Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him; and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?-- Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye. Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he listened. "John Tyrrel." "Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence. "Burr Wythe." "I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o' the trail." "What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you don't suspect--" "I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it. Come an' look fer yourself--one at a time, though. See what I've found, then say who it b'longs to." One by one the party filed into the tent and glanced at the tell-tale pipe. All recognized it. There was not another in any wise resembling it in the company. "Whose pipe is it, boys?" demanded Chicot. "Burr Wythe's!" came the reply, the voice of Nat Upshur above all others.