" Dade was walking aimlessly
about, looking for something--what, he did not know. "There's tracks all
around, and--" he disappeared behind the cabin.
In a minute he was calling them, and his tone brought them on the run.
"Now, what do you make of that?" he wanted to know, and pointed.
Two fresh mounds of earth, narrow, long--graves, if size and shape meant
anything at all. The form of a "T" they made there in the grass; for one
was short and extended across, near one end of the larger one.
"What do you make of that?" Dade repeated, much lower than before.
"Senors, evil has been done here. Me, I think--"
"Don't think! Bring that shovel, over there--see it, by the tree?--and
dig. There's one way to find out what it means."
Valencia did not want to dig into those mounds, but the voice was that
of his majordomo, whom he had for a month obeyed implicitly. He got the
shovel and he dug. And since it seemed too bad to make him do all the
work, Jack and Dade each took their turn in opening the grave.
And in that grave they found Mrs. Jerry, wrapped in her faded patchwork
quilt, her hands folded at peace, her wistful brown eyes closed
softly--There was no need to speculate long upon the cause of her death.
Her shapeless brown dress was stained dark from throat to waist. Dade,
shuddering a little, very gently lifted the hands that were folded;
beneath was the hole where the bullet had struck.
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