This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St. Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health, hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money, paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price. "I don't know--I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur, wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee. "Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an' teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon. Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot. Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side, and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips. The shrill cry startled the entire camp, and all eyes were turned toward the trembling man. Paul Chicot was the first to speak, in an angry tone: "What the devil's the matter wi' ye _now_, I'd like to ax? See'd another snake, eh?" he asked, sarcastically. "It's murther, that's what it is! He's kilt--kilt intirely!" gasped Dooley, his eyes still glaring toward the quiet tent, as if enchanted by the horrible object lying so still and ghastly within. "Who's kilt--not Dutchy?" quietly demanded Upshur, stepping forward. Chicot, giving over all idea of getting any thing satisfactory out of the stupefied Irishman, sprung forward and flung aside the strip of canvas that protected the entrance. One glance told him the truth. Tim was right. Murder had been done! Lying upon a couple of blankets, was all that remained of their quaint, pleasant comrade, Carl Hefler, or "Dutchy," the _sobriquet_ suggested by his broken, stammering speech. The long, slim figure lay at full length, as though peacefully slumbering, but the arms were flung wide, the long, bony fingers clutched as though in agony. An agonized expression had frozen upon the thin, pallid face. On the white shirt-bosom was a great stain--a stain of that peculiar, unmistakable color that seldom requires a second glance to designate. Directly above the heart the stain was blackest. There the blow had been dealt. Chicot, old and thoroughly versed in that art peculiar to his craft and the detectives--of remarking _everything_--knew that no feeble, faltering hand had dealt this blow. Either the hand of an unusually bold and cool-headed man, or else that of one to whom such deeds had been familiar. He knew that the murderer had crept fairly into the tent, had glided close to the victim, as he lay buried in unconscious slumber, and that he must have even felt out the region of the heart, since all within had been dark, else the blow could never have been delivered with such deadly precision.