For the second time that day he gazed upon the distorted features of a dead man.

Squarely across the trail, as the other had lain, was the body of an Indian, his arms outstretched, his twisted face turned straight up to the clear sky, the snow about his head glistening a sickening red in the sun.

For a full minute Rod gazed in silent horror on the scene.

There was no sign of a struggle, there were no footprints in the snow.

The man had been killed while upon the sledge, and the only mark he had made was when he had fallen off.
Who had killed him?
Had Minnetaki saved herself by taking her captor's life?
For a moment Rod was almost convinced that this was so.