lips—in a fine, hard line—just for an instant. "Dead? " she repeated slowly. "Killed—or did he just die?"
"He was killed," Hugh answered in the straightforward way of one on a witness stand. "I found him dead in his tent. He'd been shot. The black dog was shot too."
"And who are you?"
Hugh wasn't exactly accustomed to this straight-out sort of questioning, but he mustered his faculties and made his answers. "Gaylord—Hugh Gaylord," he said simply. "And if you want me to I'll tell you all I know of this affair."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan," she agreed.
"I came over to the camp—to borrow something. I was with another chap—an Indian, Pete. We found this poor beggar dead. Pete started with him into the settlements to-day. It's a wonder you didn't meet him on the trail."
"He probably took the other fork, heading toward Seven Mile. I came up from Horse Creek."
As Hugh didn't know the two places apart, or what they represented, this information did not clear matters up for him to any great extent. "He left me here," Hugh went on, "and as I didn't have anything in particular to do—I took care of the sheep—until you could hire a regular herder."
The girl looked puzzled but made no imme-
