Part 47 (2/2)

”Oh, you ran into a door, did you,” Racey observed, sweetly. ”And what particular door did you run into?”

”The front door.”

”That one?” Racey indicated the door of the barroom.

”That one.”

”We'll just take a look at that door.”

Accompanied by the deeply interested sheriff, who was beginning to sniff his quarry like the old bloodhound he was, Racey crossed to the barroom door. He looked at the door. He looked at the sheriff. The sheriff looked only at the door.

”Door's opened back flat against the wall, Mac,” said the sheriff.

”Was she like this when you ran into her?”

”Course not,” was the heated reply. ”She was swingin' open.”

Racey squatted down on the floor. ”Lookit here, Sheriff.”

The sheriff stooped and regarded the wooden wedge under the door that jammed it fast. Racey drew a finger across the top of the wedge. He held up the finger-tip for the sheriff's inspection. The tip was black with the dust of weeks.

”That door has been wedged back all this hot weather,” said Racey, gently. ”Look at the dust under the door on both sides of the wedge, too. Bet that wedge ain't been out of place for a month.”

Softly as he spoke McFluke heard him. ”---- you! I tell you that door was opened this mornin'! I hit my head on it! Ask 'em all! Ask anybody! Jack, lookit here--”

”I didn't see you hit yore head on the door,” interrupted Jack Harpe.

”Maybe you did, I dunno.”

Racey raised a quick head as Jack Harpe spoke. Quite plainly he saw Jack Harpe accompany his words with a slight lowering of his left eyelid. Racey glanced at McFluke. He saw the defiant expression depart from the McFluke countenance, and a look of unmistakable relief take its place.

Racey dropped his head. The sheriff was speaking.

”Mac,” he was saying, ”yo're lyin'. Yo're lyin' as fast as a hoss can trot. You never got yore black eye on this door. I dunno why yo're sayin' you did, but I'm gonna find out. Till--”

”You won't have far to go to find out,” struck in Racey Dawson. ”I know how he got his black eye.”

”How?” demanded the sheriff, his grizzled eyebrows drawing together.

”Dale gave it to him,” was the answer pat and pithy.

”He did not!” The saloon-keeper began to roar instantly, and had to be quieted by Kansas Casey.

When order was restored Racey explained his deductions. The sheriff listened in silence. Then he went to the body of the dead man, and examined the bruised and broken right hand.

”I'm tellin' you,” declared Racey with finality, ”he hit somebody when he broke that hand.”

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