“As shore as shootin’”, cried the man, “he’s dead! He hasn’t a bit of pulse.”
“Go for a Doctor,” said Blicker.
“I’ll step over to Dr. Warner’s office,” said the man. “I see him riding up now.”
It was not more than five minutes before Dr. Warner was on the spot. A very brief examination proved that Jones was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart.
“Who did it?” asked the Doctor.
“That feller, I reckon,” pointing to the prostrate form of Comston, spoke up the man who gave the version of the affair, which, in connection with that of the saloon-keeper, made it evident that Comston was the criminal.
It was several hours before Comston was sufficiently sober to comprehend that he was accused of a most awful crime. When he awoke from his drunken sleep, the constable was near by, who had a warrant for his arrest.
“Come,” said he to Comston, “you’re my prisoner. Come on to jail.”
“To jail!” cried Comston. “You’re joking! What have I done to go to jail for?”