“I suppose you were armed?” inquired the coroner casually.
“I had my six-shooter in my shaps, all right.”
“Ah, is that the gun? What calibre is it?”
“A forty-five.”
The officers of the law glanced at each other knowingly, and the deputy turned back toward the ranch.
“The deceased was shot with a thirty-thirty,” observed the coroner briefly, and there the matter was dropped.
“Umm, a thirty-thirty,” muttered Creede, “now 426 who in––” He paused and nodded his head, and a look of infinite cunning came into his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the retreating posse.
“Bill Johnson!” he said, and then he laughed––but it was not a pleasant laugh.