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pellets which had missed Genneman’s head. Sighting back from this tree across the bloodstain on the trail, he once more saw the clump of cedars—corroboration, if any were needed, that there the killer had stood.
    Was it Genneman he intended to kill? Or anyone who came along the trail? Was the motive robbery? Lunacy? Hunger? Was the killer the lone man who had presumably followed the group and camped at a discreet distance across Persimmon Lake?
    Collins closed his mind to speculation, pending more facts.
    Sergeant Easley returned with photographs taken by his Polaroid camera. He had tracked the footprints—if that was what the marks were—back to the trail, where they disappeared. Otherwise he had found nothing of significance.
    Collins summoned Dr Koster, the pilot, and Superintendent Phelps. “I’ll be the killer. Phelps, you play Genneman. Easley, you bring up the rear. I want you all to go back along the trail, strung out like a group of back-packers. Walk this way. Don’t look at me, but observe whether I’m noticeable. When I say ‘bang’ drop to the ground, and after a reasonable interval come looking for me.”
    The four men came along the trail. Phelps stepped into the little clearing. “Bang!” shouted Collins. Phelps dropped, avoiding the clotted blood on which flies were feasting.
    Collins took his imaginary shotgun, retreated through the trees, and regained the trail a hundred yards north. He returned to find the others still cautiously reconnoitering the forest. “That’s enough,” said Collins. “Did anyone see me?”
    Only Phelps, playing Genneman, had done so. “Frankly, though, I was looking for you. I wouldn’t have seen you otherwise.”
    â€œWell,” said Collins dubiously, “that seems to be the story.”
    He went back to examine the four young cedar trees. The limb was rather low to make a comfortable gun-rest. Of course, the killer would not have worried about mere comfort. Perhaps he had been a short man.
    Another thing, he thought. There was very little room to maneuver. With a shotgun resting on the low branch, the killer, stooping or squatting to aim, must have been crowded back into the foliage. Unless he had allowed the gun barrel to show … Once again Collins examined the cedars, hoping to find a hair, or thread, or a wisp of fiber, but without success. He returned to the trail.
    Phelps looked at him quizzically. “Well, what do you make of it?”
    Collins gave a grunt. “About the same thing you do. I want to locate the man that came up-trail behind Genneman’s party.”
    â€œAnything more you want around here?”
    â€œNo.”
    Phelps kicked loose sand over the blood. Then they walked back to the helicopter.
    The motor roared, the blades swung, the helicopter eased up and away from Lomax Meadow, and Earl Genneman began his journey home in a manner he would certainly have deplored.
    Persimmon Lake was only two miles distant; they barely had got up into the air, it seemed, than they settled again on the flat. This was a different type of landscape entirely: a valley surrounded by snow-covered peaks, almost treeless, with the blue oval lake at its center.
    Phelps led the way to where Earl Genneman and his party had camped, the site marked by the ashes of their campfire.
    â€œAs best I can gather,” said Phelps, “the lone man had his camp around the shore at the northern end of the lake. That’s how Mr. Retwig describes it, and he seems pretty observant.”
    â€œLet’s go take a look,” said Collins. “Come along, Easley; get some exercise. You’re growing fat in the public service.”
    At the north end of the lake, near an outcrop of rock, they found a bed of fresh ashes. Collins and Easley inspected the terrain; again no material clues. No paper, no discarded articles, nothing that might have retained fingerprints.
    They walked around