“Supposin’ it wasn’t natural; supposin’ it was the other kind o’ poison: they’d have to get rid o’ the body, some way or other, wouldn’t they,—or run the risk of havin’ it dug up and looked into, after Murtrie’s friends took hold?”
“Go on.”
“That bein’ the case, they’d have to call in some sort of outside help; they couldn’t handle it alone. Two or three of Scott Weber’s gang’ve been seen hanging around in Brewster within the last few days. Supposin’ these fellows at the Molly Baldwin put up a job with Scott to make this play with Murtrie’s body?”
“By Jove, Harding—I half believe you’ve got it!” Maxwell exclaimed; but the chemistry expert said nothing.
“We can tell better after we get on the ground, maybe,” the sheriff went on. “I had Follansbee bring his dogs along. There’s a trail up through the head of Cromarty Gulch leadin’ out to the old Reservation road on the mesa. If they had anything as heavy as Murtrie’s body to tote, that’s about the way they went with it.”
Maxwell had been absently marking little squares on his desk blotter as Harding talked. The sheriff’s theory was ingenious, but it failed to account for all the facts.
“There’s more to it than that,” he said, at length. And then he appealed to the silent guest. “Don’t you think so, Sprague?”
“I’m waiting to hear how Mr. Harding accounts for the raid on the passengers,” said the big man modestly. “One would think that a gang of body-snatchers would have been willing to do one thing at a time.”
“By George! that’s so,” the sheriff acknowledged. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then,” he added, after a second thought, “a gang that was tryin’ to cover up a killin’ wouldn’t be any too good to throw in a little hold-up business on the side.”
“No,” said Sprague; but he made no further comment. So far from it, he sat back in his chair and smoked patiently while Maxwell and the sheriff went on with the theory-building, a process which continued in some desultory fashion until Maxwell, glancing out of a window, said: