"How about that mule?" whispered Douglas.

"Let it go plumb to hell!" returned Judith. "Scott's the one should have
been shot, for sending you out with such a brute!"

"If it hadn't been for the mule, we'd never have found him," muttered
Douglas.

It was not much after eleven when the two, huddled together on the seat
of the buckboard, started back for Lost Chief. The cold was so intense
that they were obliged to take turns driving. When the road permitted,
they walked until even their hardy lungs demanded rest. Then they huddled
together again, their knees touching the dashboard, lest Oscar's poor
dead feet should thrust against theirs.

They talked very little except to guess as to the probable name of the
murderer. Toward dawn, when the moon had set and Douglas was trusting the
trail to the horses, he said:

"Do you remember at the schoolhouse Sunday, when Charleton said he didn't
believe in a hereafter, old Jeff chimed in and said, 'Me too'?"

"I remember," replied Judith.

"What do you suppose Jeff thinks about it now?"

"He ain't thinking. He's gone. There's no hereafter. Dad says so." Judith
huddled still closer.