The man's reply became a mixture of incongruities. He had stayed at the saloon, he said, until all was quiet, about one o'clock. Then he had come up to the Post, to defend it, having heard that it had been attacked by citizens. Captain Lyon had a squad of forty-five men out looking for Captain Macklin at the jail. He, Miller, had taken a gun from a gun-rack that had been broken open, and joined the search. He didn't know why Captain Lyon had expected to find Captain Macklin in jail.
Corporal Miller was excused and other negroes summoned and examined. Their stories were confused, contradictory and full of guilt. Finally a soldier appeared, whose name, C.W. Askew, corresponded with the initials written in the cap, found in the street the morning after the raid.
Askew came in with the usual "sassy" look, faced Captain Bill, wilted, and lost his memory. He had previously lost his hearing, it would seem, for like Captain Macklin, he had heard nothing of the shooting, or the confusion, until the call to arms, when he had hurried to a rack that was broken open and got the first gun he came to.
"Let me see your cap," said Captain McDonald.
Askew handed it over.
The cap was a new one. Inside were the initials, "C.W.A." freshly written and corresponding exactly with those in the cap found on the street.
Captain Bill handed it back.
"Where is your old one?" he said.
"I've got two or three old ones."