There were two letters addressed to Nick Caldwell. Glancing through them in the hope of finding something more concerning the man’s identity, Bertram gave a whistle of astonishment.
The letters indicated that the recipient, while ostensibly favoring the cattle rustlers, was in reality working for certain great cattle interests.
But, if Swingley and this slain man had been associated on the same side in this great war of the range, how had it come about that the leader of the expedition had been so determined to kill his confederate? Was Swingley unaware that Caldwell was really working for the cattle interests, or had some personal feud arisen between the two men?
“Probably it’s a case of wheels within wheels,” thought Bertram. “Maybe this man Caldwell threatened Swingley’s leadership. Or it may be that Caldwell was not so much on the cattlemen’s side as these letters indicate, and the word was given to Swingley to get him first of all.”
Dropping on one knee beside the body Bertram glanced over another paper, which he had taken out with the letters. It was in the form of a diary, loosely scrawled on several sheets of paper. It was a brief account of the fight which had just taken place.
“By George! this Caldwell was a cool one,” thought Bertram. “He found time to jot down a story of the fight, while he was standing off that bunch.”
The opening entry said:
Five-forty—The fight’s on. They’ve got Nate Day—shot him, as he stepped out after water. I can see from the window that he’s stone dead.
Then followed entries in which the writer told of the fight as it progressed. He mentioned wounding or killing four men, and he told of bullets that whistled through the windows and loopholes, yet did not hit him. The final entries read:
Eight-fifteen—They’re bringing out some kind of a go-devil on wheels, with an armored front. I can’t see the men behind it, and bullets don’t go through the iron. I guess I’m done.