"Good. How did it sound?"
"Well, she began with more of a ring to her—sharper than a six-shooter—and she ended heavily, just like a .45."
"Sure," he said, with great satisfaction. "That was the 30-30. It just beat Jeff to the mark. Why didn't you tell that at the inquest?"
"I wasn't sure," I answered lamely. "Nobody would have believed me, anyway."
"So you think a feller ought to tell only what he figures folks will believe? Well, it don't matter. Don't get hot. Listen. We'll bring back the feller who shot Bud, to-night or to-morrow. He was hiding in that dark hall back of Thomas, just waiting for a chance. As quick as I saw the hole in Bud's head, I said to myself, 'A .45 never made that, son.' No, sir; I sure knew that 30-30 mark."
"How did you know where it came from?"
"That's easy. Bud was shot in front, wasn't he? Well, Jeff didn't do it, so I hunted in that passage to find out who did. Sure enough, a feller had braced himself with his hand on the wall. He was a powerful big brute, too—more'n six feet high, easy."
The sheriff chuckled, pleased as a boy with his own astuteness.
"Say, Dan, it's almost funny the way things turn out. Ol' Miguel, the lazy rascal, he done left a tin of axle grease on a shelf beside the back door, and when this feller come in and went sneaking along the hall, a-feeling his way so as not to make a noise, he stuck his hand into it. Then he leaned with that hand bracing him, while he waited for Bud. Do you get that? That was the hand he leaned on. Wouldn't that most scare you? That gives his size away. Why couldn't his luck have made him lean with the other hand? I tell you, it makes a man think."
He would not talk more on the subject and evinced impatience when pressed. We put up at Kelley's place in the Kingdom, and the sheriff had a few words with Kelley himself before we ate a meal specially prepared for us.