Bassett nodded, rose and poured out another drink.

"I suppose," he observed casually, "that even if Clark turned up now, it
would be hard to convict him, wouldn't it?"

The sheriff considered that, holding up his glass.

"Well, yes and no," he said. "It was circumstantial evidence, mostly.
Nobody saw it done. The worst thing against him was his running off."

"How about witnesses?"

"Nobody actually saw it done. John Donaldson came the nearest, and he's
dead. Lucas's wife was still alive, the last I heard, and I reckon the
valet is floating around somewhere."

"I suppose if he did turn up you'd make a try for it." Bassett stared at
the end of his cigar.

"We'd make a try for it, all right," Wilkins said somberly. "There are
some folks in this county still giving me the laugh over that case."

The next day Bassett hired a quiet horse, rolled in his raincoat two
days' supply of food, strapped it to the cantle of his saddle, and rode
into the mountains. He had not ridden for years, and at the end of the
first hour he began to realize that he was in for a bad time. By noon
he was so sore that he could hardly get out of the saddle, and so stiff
that once out, he could barely get back again. All morning the horse
had climbed, twisting back and forth on a narrow canyon trail, grunting
occasionally, as is the way of a horse on a steep grade. All morning
they had followed a roaring mountain stream, descending in small
cataracts from the ice fields far above. And all morning Bassett had
been mentally following that trail as it had been ridden ten years
ago by a boy maddened with fear and drink, who drove his horse forward
through the night and the blizzard, with no objective and no hope.