"Yes, that must have been the old guy with the whiskers they dug out early on from the lower end of the slide. Relative, name of Winklestein, took charge of him. Took him to the tent yonder. Won't let any one go near."
He pointed to a tent on the hillside, and it was with a heavy heart I went forward. The poor old man, so gentle, so dignified, with his dream of a golden treasure that might bring happiness to others. It was cruel, cruel....
"Say, what d'ye want here? Get to hell outa this."
The words came with a snarl. I looked up in surprise.
There at the door of the tent, all a-bristle like a gutter-bred cur, was Winklestein.
I stared at the man a moment, for little had I expected so gracious a reception.
"Mush on, there," he repeated truculently; "you're not wanted 'round here. Mush! Pretty darned smart."
I felt myself grow suddenly, savagely angry. I measured the man for a moment and determined I could handle him.
"I want," I said soberly, "to see the body of my old friend."
"You do, do you? Well, you darned well won't. Besides, there ain't no body here."
"You're a liar!" I observed. "But it's no use wasting words on you. I'm going on anyhow."
With that I gripped him suddenly and threw him sideways with some force. One of the tent ropes took away his feet violently, and there on the snow he sprawled, glowering at me with evil eyes.
"Now," said I, "I've got a gun, and if you try any monkey business, I'll fix you so quick you won't know what's happened."
The bluff worked. He gathered himself up and followed me into the tent, looking the picture of malevolent impotence. On the ground lay a longish object covered with a blanket. With a strange feeling of reluctant horror I lifted the covering. Beneath it lay the body of the old man.
He was lying on his back, and had not been squeezed out of all human semblance like so many of the others. Nevertheless, he was ghastly enough, with his bluish face and wide bulging eyes. What had worn his fingers to the bone so? He must have made a desperate struggle with his bare hands to dig himself out. I will never forget those torn, nailless fingers. I felt around his waist. Ha! the money belt was gone!
"Winklestein," I said, turning suddenly on the little Jew, "this man had two thousand dollars on him. What have you done with it?"