“What’s wrong?” he asked, and gently shook the motionless figure. “Cripes! Dead as hell!”

He raised the head and noted the wide eyes and the fallen jaw, and gently he permitted the head to regain its former position and stood back to take in the entire picture. That the jeep had been here for some time was proved by the close interest of very wary and wily birds, as well as by the condition of the dead man’s face.

There were dark marks under the vehicle, and Sam crouched and determined these marks to be dried blood. He looked into the vehicle and saw that dried blood covered the floor about the dead man’s feet.

“Done in… looks like,” he said, aloud.“By the tracker, too. ’S’avalook.”

He rummaged among the gear behind the seat, finding, with the extra tyres and the tool-box, a tucker-box andone swag of blankets. There was no need to investigate the swag, for the outer canvas of the roll was heavily marked with the constable’s name.

There should have been a second swag, a much poorer outfit, and Sam removed filled petrol drums and other gear to make sure. The tracker’s swag was not there.

“Trackermusta shot you and cleared out,” Sam remarked to the corpse. “Mightabeen an accident sort of, and the tracker’s walked back to Agar’s to report. Mighta been that way, but somehow I don’t think so. Assumin ’ youwas shot accidental, and the tracker decides to get back to Agar’s, he wouldn’t have bothered to carry his swag. No fear… if I know them blacks. He’d have taken all the cooked food, and got out of most of his clothes and his boots and travelled light.”

Sam squatted on his heels and cut tobacco chips. He wished someone would come along and share the responsibility, for something would have to be done about this business, and a feller doesn’t want to go and do anything wrong which would make the cops nag at him. This policeman was dead all right, and the blood proved he hadn’t died in his sleep or of heart failure. The tracker must have had a lot to do with it.