“Shot in the back and never know who done it,” was his quick answer.
Scott had had his wish.
Death meant nothing to these men. It was all in the day’s happenings, but to me, at this very moment of writing, visualization of Scott’s body, as it lay on the rough pine bed in a back room in Sisson’s Hotel, is as clear as it was in 1877. The rope had been taken from his neck and had left an impress, above which rose his purple head, looking like an eggplant, with the shock of red hair, the pale blue eyes wide open, and the rows of perfect teeth showing, his mouth drawn into a snarl. His body was green-white, the blood having all gone to the head, and under the left arm, where the bullet had gone in, was a little blue spot. But under the right arm, where the bullet had come out, was a ghastly hole through which protruded torn pieces of flesh. I did not know that men died that way.
A few minutes after the body was brought in a woodsman was found who had passed the wagon—it must have been while the murderer was disposing of the body in the bushes—for he said that a Ballard rifle was leaning against the wheels. He had thought the driver of the wagon was off in the woods and would be back presently, so was in no way surprised at the sight.
The minute the woodsman mentioned the gun I was convinced as to who had committed the murder. I had seen Carrick’s Indian with a Ballard rifle. It had a broken extractor, and he had to use a withe to poke out the empty shell. Sure enough, beside the road we found a withe covered with powder. An Indian tracker told us, from his examination of the trees, that the murderer had worn a red tippet and was riding a sorrel horse with a white star. The evidence was conclusive enough for us to start out for Carrick’s ranch.
We were a posse of four—the Texan, who had been in the Civil War and was a real leader; Joe Johnston, a friend of Scott’s; one of Joe’s hired men; and myself. We were prepared for a fight, for, as Carrick hated Scott and was probably implicated in the affair, we figured he would protect the Indian.
The way lay over fertile, grassy country, and on the road we passed bands of sheep and cattle. One herder rode several miles with us and, on hearing our errand, said:
“If you help me git these cattle together I’ll tell you something I know.”
It seems that the night before he had been at Carrick’s house. It was getting quite late when he heard a mysterious whistle under the window. Making an excuse, he went outside and looked about. There in the corral was a horse—sorrel in color with a white star on its forehead—evidently just returned from a hard run, as it was covered with lather. At that moment he heard a sound, and coming out of the kitchen door was Carrick’s son, carrying something in his hand. He disappeared into the barn. Creeping up to a crack in the building where a light shone out, he peeped through and saw the boy giving food to an Indian.
Our evidence was piling up.