"Who shot him?" gasped the senior engineer. "Why--er--didn't Gregson
tell you that it was an accident?"

"Why should he lie, Thorne?"

A faint flush swept into the other's pallid face. For a moment there was
a penetrating glare in his eyes as he looked at Howland. Jackpine still
stood silent and motionless beside the stove.

"He told me that it was an accident," said Thorne at last.

"Funny," was all that Howland said, turning to the Indian as though the
matter was of no importance. "Ah, Jackpine, I'm glad to see the
coffee-pot on. I've got a box of the blackest and mildest Porto Ricans
you ever laid eyes on in my kit, Thorne, and we'll open 'em up for a
good smoke after supper. Hello, why have you got boards nailed over
that window?"

For the first time Howland noticed that the thin muslin curtain, which
he thought had screened a window, concealed, in place of a window, a
carefully fitted barricade of plank. A sudden thrill shot through him as
he rose to examine it. With his back toward Thorne he said, half
laughing, "Perhaps Gregson was afraid that the fellow who clipped off
his finger would get him through the window, eh?"

He pretended not to perceive the effect of his words on the senior
engineer. The two sat down to supper and for an hour after they had
finished they smoked and talked on the business of the camp. It was ten
o'clock when Thorne and Jackpine left the cabin.