The stage was on its return trip from Louisville. It had but a single passenger, and that passenger was Sheriff Lane, who sat with the driver on top of the coach. The conversation naturally drifted to the capture of the two robbers the previous week. The driver said that he had thought the matter over for hours at a time, and had but one solution to the strange conduct of Stayford. The man, he thought, was not accustomed to such work; he grew nervous under the strain, and accidentally fired the revolver, on which he had but a slight hold. In consequence of this, it rebounded from his hand.
"I've been thinking that there matter over," said Mr. Lane, at the same time drawing from his pocket the identical pistol which Stayford had dropped. "Do you see that there mark on the upper part of the rusty barrel?" he asked, as he held up the weapon in front of the driver.
"Plainly," was the answer.
"What do you think done it?"
"It seems to be the mark of a bullet."
"When do you think that there mark was made?"
"Certainly within the past few days."
"So far we agree exactly," said the sheriff. "I noticed that there mark about an hour after I arrested the robbers. It was somewhat brighter then than it is now. I reckon that a rifle shot from the top of the hill knocked that there pistol from Stayford's hand. What's your opinion?"
"In the first place, Sheriff, we should have heard the report of the rifle."
"That's my only difficulty," put in Mr. Lane. "But we'll settle that there thing later on. What else have you to say?"