“Yes, and another beyond—­farther down—­amongst that ice-pack!  Do you see?”

“Where?” Mick Kennedy trained his one eye like a fieldpiece upon the locality suggested.  “Where?  Yes!  I see them now—­both of them.  Blair’s own horse, if he had one, is probably in there too, somewhere.”

Meanwhile Stetson had been scrutinizing the spot on the river’s face from which had come the puff of smoke.

“Say, boys!” a ring as near excitement as was possible to one of his temperament was in his voice.  “Ain’t that an island, that brown patch out there, pretty well over to the other side?  I believe it is.”

The others followed his glance.  Near the farther bank was a long low-lying object, like a jam of broken ice-cakes, between which and them the open water was flowing.  At first they thought it was ice; then under longer observation they knew better.  They had seen too many other formations of the kind in this shifting treacherous stream to be long deceived.  A flat sandy island it was, sure enough; and what they thought was ice was driftwood.

Almost simultaneously from the eight there burst forth an exclamation, a rumbling curse of comprehension.  They understood it all now as plainly as though their own eyes had seen the tragedy.  Blair had reached the river and, despite its rotten ice, had tried to cross.  One by one the horses had broken through, had been abandoned to their fate.  He alone, somehow, had managed to reach this sandy island, and he was there now, intrenched behind the driftwood, waiting and watching.

In the brain of every cowboy there formed an unuttered curse.  Their impotence to go farther, to mete out retribution to this murderer of their companion, came over them in a blind wave of fury.  The sun, now well above the horizon, shone warmly down upon them.  They were in the midst of an infrequent Winter thaw.  The full current of the river was between them and the desperado.  It might be days, a week, before ice would again form; yet, connecting the island with the western bank, it was even now in place.  Blair had but to wait until cover of night, and depart in peace—­on foot, to be sure, but in the course of days a man could travel far afoot.  Doubtless he realized all this.  Doubtless he was laughing at them now.  The curses redoubled.

Stetson had been taking off his coat.  He now draped it about his rifle-stock, and placed his sombrero on top.  “All ready, boys,” he cautioned, and raised it slowly into view.

Instantly from the centre of the driftwood heap there arose a tracing of blue smoke.  Simultaneously, irregular in outline as though punched by a dull instrument, a jagged hole appeared in the felt of the hat.