THE SMEAR

In the Malamute Saloon in Dawson the lights blazed. There was noisy music, whisky and gambling—all the sourdoughs’ dearest joys.

Outside it was dark, with the first breath of the Yukon winter in the north wind.

“Finn Charley” lugged out a heavy poke and poured a couple of ounces of gold dust into the pan of the scales on the bar. He had become suddenly prosperous and he intended to celebrate.

Two members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police entered. The constable took his post at the door, but the corporal walked forward until he stood under the first of the hanging lights, and his keen eyes searched the company, missing no man.

Finn Charley flinched, the broad nostrils of his flat nose twitched, and his lashless yellow eyes flickered uneasily. Then he gulped down a glass of raw whisky, coughed, and straightened. He knew the man was dead. Nobody had seen him. He was safe if he did not betray himself.

When all eyes were upon him, the corporal spoke in a clear voice. “Boys, a man was robbed and murdered on the Klondike Trail tonight, a mile out of town.”

Again Finn Charley felt a wild impulse to escape. But the eyes of the corporal held the room. He must do as the others did. With an unmeaning grin upon his face, Finn Charley swaggered up to join the half-circle collecting around the policeman.

The light illumined all their faces, while the corporal, under the lamp, was in shadow. His steady glance rested upon each in turn. The grin remained upon Finn Charley’s face, but under it his jaws were tight.

“The man was not quite dead when we found him,” said the corporal slowly, and paused.

Finn Charley’s broken finger nails were pressing into the palms of his hands, but he did not feel them. He was wishing the man would go on talking.

“He said a few words before he died,” said the corporal, and paused again.

In the tense half-circle, nobody breathed. Finn Charley felt himself choking. Sweat started out on his forehead. The cold penetrating glance of the corporal passed from face to face and back again.

“He had been shot from behind,” he went on. “But the man who fired the shot turned him over on his face to frisk him. He pretended he was dead, but he saw——”

Finn Charley shot a lightning glance over his shoulder. There were men on each side of him. Immediately in his rear two men had climbed on chairs for a better view. He must stand still or arouse suspicion.

“The light was not very good, but he saw one thing clear,” went on the slow, steady voice, each word like a hammer blow.

“He said to me, and they were the last words he spoke”—the restless eyes flickered upon Finn Charley’s face, passed on and returned—“he said to me, ‘Find the man with a big black smear on his left cheek.’ ”

All unconsciously, Finn Charley’s hand shot up to his cheek.

“In the King’s name!” cried the corporal, and leaped upon him.

The constable at the door flung forward. The handcuffs clicked. Fighting like a maniac and yelling hoarsely, Finn Charley was dragged away.

At the Mounted Police post, they found upon him the old silver monogrammed watch of the dead man.

“But,” said the constable later, “I don’t understand yet how you did it. When we reached the poor devil he was stone dead. He never said a word. How did you know the murderer had a smear on his face?”

“I didn’t,” said the corporal. “And besides, the murderer had no smear on his face.”