revenue men, at that. He and Parker were up on the cliffs not a
quarter-mile from the old cabin. They stood close together, right at the
edge. Parker fell. Brodie looked down, turned on his heel and went off,
smoking his stinking pipe, most likely. I buried Parker the next
morning."

"Poor devil," said Gaynor. Then his brows shot up and he demanded:

"You mean Brodie did for him? Shoved him over?"

"That's exactly what I mean. But I can't tie it to Brodie, not so that
he couldn't shake himself free of it. Parker didn't say so in so many
words; I saw the whole thing from the mountain across the lake, too far
to swear to anything like that. But this I can swear to: Brodie was in
there for the same thing we've been after for ten years. And what is
more, it's open and shut that he was of a mind to play whole-hog and
pushed Andy Parker over to simplify matters. In my mind, even though I
can't hope to ram that down a jury."

"How do you _know_ what Brodie and Parker were after?"

"Andy Parker. He was sullen and tight-mouthed for the most part until
delirium got him. Then he babbled by the hour. And all his talk was of
Gus Ingle and the devil's luck of the unlucky Seven, with every now and
then a word for Loony Honeycutt and Swen Brodie."

"If there is such a thing as devil's luck," said Gaynor with a sober
look to his face, "this thing seems plastered thick with it."

King grunted his derision.