“We must make sure. Let us all spread out in a wide circle and gradually work in to this spot. Let no hollow tree, pile of rocks or loose brush be overlooked. If an Indian has been killed, a most serious crime has been committed and we may find ourselves at war before we are prepared.” “My woman’ll be crazy if I don’t git back,” growled Stetson. “Job Twill as much as said he didn’t know anything about it. Where’s Bert Rice and Lon Hester?” The two names were shouted repeatedly, but neither of the men appeared. Stetson continued: “They’re the only two other witnesses known, and I figger they don’t know any more than Twill did. I’m satisfied no Injun’s been killed.” “But Old Thatch was killed,” cried Polcher, taking a step back. “There’s no make believe about that.” “That’s another bar’el of cats,” grunted Stetson. “I’m going home.” “Yes, Thatch was killed. But if no Indian was slain his story must have been a case of too much liquor,” murmured Sevier. “That brings us back to the question; who killed him?” Polcher was alarmed. Not only was his whole scheme tumbling about his ears, but he felt death in the night air and even fancied he detected Sevier examining the dark boughs overhead as if in search of a gallows cross-beam. He cursed his lust for personal vengeance. If he only had accused Thatch of the crime! Or Hester! Where were his wits that he had not utilized the trick for disposing of Hester? Hester was becoming a nuisance, and it was only a question of time when he must be removed. Used as an ignorant tool, the fellow had assumed such airs as to threaten embarrassment to the plans of his Majesty, Charles III. But more poignant than any regrets was the accumulating fear of the unseen counterplot. He knew Thatch had stumbled upon a dead Indian. And some one had concealed the body. He began to doubt his own perspicacity and to imagine other secret plots were unfolding to hem him in. For the first time in his life he knew what it was to tremble on the edge of a panic. With a sidelong glance he saw Sevier was watching him curiously. With a mighty effort he recovered his self-control and demanded: “Let no one go back until we’ve formed the circle as suggested by Sevier. Somewhere near here is the dead body of an Indian. One more effort before we cry quits.” He seized a torch and led the way deep into the forest, calling out for the men to scatter and make the circle complete. The men hesitated, but, as Sevier took up a position within a rod of the tavern-keeper, they grumbled and did as told, even Stetson changing his mind and participating in this, the last effort. “All ready over here,” bellowed Stetson.