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the site in widening spirals, until at the lakeshore Collins came to an abrupt halt. Here, in a patch of mud, was a half-obliterated footprint. Easley puffed back to the helicopter for his case, while Collins took a sample of the lakeside mud as well as the dirt around the campfire. Easley returned and set about making a plaster cast, while Collins stood looking here and there, pondering the curious circumstances. Why had the lone man followed so cautiously and then allowed himself to be seen? For the second or third time Collins considered the possibility of a murder-conspiracy among James, Kershaw, Vega and Retwig, but he dismissed it again as improbable.
    The plaster cast solidified; Easley wrapped it in cotton and packed it in his case. With nothing more to be seen, photographed, or sampled, they returned to the helicopter, the motor roared, the blades buffeted the air; Persimmon Lake became a chilly blue oval below.
    Dutchman’s Pass and the gleaming snowfields approached, receded. The helicopter drifted down Copper Creek Canyon toward the gash of Kings Canyon. Copper Creek Trail angled and jerked down the mountainside, at last unkinked and led into the parking area.
    The helicopter settled on the meadow. Collins, Sergeant Easley, and Superintendent Phelps alighted; the helicopter with Dr Koster and the body of Earl Genneman rose once more and flew off down the valley toward Fresno.
    On a bench in front of the ranger’s cabin sat Myron Retwig, Buck James and Bob Vega. Retwig and James were reading the Los Angeles Times , bought at the nearby grocery store. Vega sat stiffly erect, morose and preoccupied. Red Kershaw, it developed, was inside asleep.
    â€œSorry to have kept you waiting,” said Collins. “A case like this inconveniences everyone. I’ll be a few minutes with Superintendent Phelps, then I’ll talk to you, and you’ll be free to go.”
    Retwig examined him with owlish detachment. “What, if anything, did you learn?”
    â€œVery little beyond what you told me.”
    Retwig folded his newspaper. Neither Buck nor Vega had anything to say. Collins and Easley went into the cabin, to the private office at the side of the waiting room.
    Phelps already sat at the telephone, listening to reports. He hung up and said to the inspector, “Nothing. We’ve checked departing cars, found six men driving out alone. None remotely connected with the case. I’ll have a written report in an hour or so.” He pulled thoughtfully at the corner of his mustache. “I must say I incline to the madman theory. I can’t believe a sane man would follow Genneman two days into the mountains to kill him.”
    â€œIt all depends,” said Collins. “If someone wanted to kill Genneman badly enough, two days or ten days would mean very little.”
    Phelps swung around in his chair to look up at the wallmap. “Even a madman would have to enter the park somewhere. Unfortunately there are dozens of ways in and out. Some very inconvenient, of course. A man could come in at Cedar Grove, cross the entire Sierra, and come out at Lone Pine or Independence. He could hike north into Yosemite, or south into Sequoia. He could abandon the trail entirely, follow one of the rivers and leave the park without so much as a thank you.” The superintendent frowned peevishly. “In which case we lose him entirely.”
    â€œAll we can do at the moment,” said Collins, “is work on what we know. To start with, we’ll assume the killer is the man who followed the party up Copper Creek Trail. Do you keep a record of the cars entering the park?”
    â€œWell, in effect. The entry permits include the license number of the vehicle, and we retain a carbon. I’ll have a list of the licenses made up for you.”
    â€œThat would be a help,” nodded Collins. “Let’s see … Today is Tuesday. The Genneman party started up the trail Saturday