Part 25 (2/2)

”The sequence in this particular instance is immaterial--quite immaterial,” argued the playwright, with obstinate a.s.surance. ”The fact stays with us that there _was_ something partly unaccountable in this first tragedy to which the thought of Hoskins--the thoughts of all those who knew the circ.u.mstances--could revert.”

”Well?” said Ballard.

”It is on this hypothesis that I have constructed my theory. Casting out all the accidents chargeable to carelessness, to disobedience of orders, or to temporary aberration on the part of the workmen, there still remains a goodly number of them carrying this disturbing atom of mystery. Take Sanderson's case: he came here, I'm told, with a decent record; he was not in any sense of the words a moral degenerate. Yet in a very short time he was killed in a quarrel over a woman at whom the average man wouldn't look twice. Blacklock, here, has seen this woman; but I'd like to ask if either of you two have?”--this to Ballard and the a.s.sistant.

Ballard shook his head, and Bromley confessed that he had not.

”Well, Jerry and I have the advantage of you--we have seen her,” said Wingfield, scoring the point with a self-satisfied smile. ”She is a gray-haired Mexican crone, apparently old enough, and certainly hideous enough, to be the Mexican foreman's mother. I'll venture the a.s.sertion that Sanderson never thought of her as a feminine possibility at all.”

”Hold on; I shall be obliged to spoil your theory there,” interrupted Bromley. ”Billy unquestionably put himself in Manuel's hands. He used to go down to the ranch two or three times a week, and he spent money, a good bit of it, on the woman. I know it, because he borrowed from me.

And along toward the last, he never rode in that direction without slinging his Winchester under the stirrup-leather.”

”Looking for trouble with Manuel, you would say?” interjected Wingfield.

”No doubt of it. And when the thing finally came to a focus, the Mexican gave Billy a fair show; there were witnesses to that part of it. Manuel told Sanderson to take his gun, which the woman was trying to hide, get on his horse, and ride to the north corner of the corral, where he was to wheel and begin shooting--or be shot in the back. The programme was carried out to the letter. Manuel walked his own horse to the south corner, and the two men wheeled and began to shoot. Three or four shots were fired by each before Billy was. .h.i.t.”

”Um!” said the playwright thoughtfully. ”There were witnesses, you say?

Some of the Craigmiles cow-boys, I suppose. You took their word for these little details?”

Bromley made a sorrowful face. ”No; it was Billy's own story. The poor fellow lived long enough to tell me what I've been pa.s.sing on to you. He tried to tell me something else, something about Manuel and the woman, but there wasn't time enough.”

Wingfield had found the long-stemmed pipe and was filling it from the jar of tobacco on the table. ”Was that all?” he inquired.

”All but the finish--which was rather heart-breaking. When he could no longer speak he kept pointing to me and to his rifle, which had been brought in with him. I understood he was trying to tell me that I should keep the gun.”

”You did keep it?”

”Yes; I have it yet.”

”Let me have a look at it, will you?”

The weapon was found, and Wingfield examined it curiously. ”Is it loaded?” he asked.

Bromley nodded. ”I guess it is. It hasn't been out of its case or that cupboard since the day of the killing.”

The playwright worked the lever cautiously, and an empty cartridge sh.e.l.l flipped out and fell to the floor. ”William Sanderson's last shot,” he remarked reflectively, and went on slowly pumping the lever until eleven loaded cartridges lay in an orderly row on the table. ”You were wrong in your count of the number of shots fired, or else the magazine was not full when Sanderson began,” he commented. Then, as Blacklock was about to pick up one of the cartridges: ”Hold on, Jerry; don't disturb them, if you please.”

Blacklock laughed nervously. ”Mr. Wingfield's got a notion,” he said.

”He's always getting 'em.”

”I have,” was the quiet reply. ”But first let me ask you, Bromley: What sort of a rifle marksman was Sanderson?”

”One of the best I ever knew. I have seen him drill a silver dollar three times out of five at a hundred yards when he was feeling well.

There is your element of mystery again: I could never understand how he missed the Mexican three or four times in succession at less than seventy-five yards--unless Manuel's first shot was the one that hit him.

That might have been it. Billy was all sand; the kind of man to go on shooting after he was killed.”

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