“Here, here!” he remonstrated callously. “What’s wrong with you, Carey? Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re a peach to want to come man-hunting, you are. Have you never seen a stiff before? Get in an’ have a good look at everythin’, because you’ll most likely be an important witness at the inquest.... O-oh!” he broke off, with a sharp intake of his breath, “my ear’s givin’ me h—l. Lend me your handkerchief.”
Thus urged, and trembling violently with horror and repugnance, the agent nerved himself again to the ordeal. Raising the lamp once more, he gazed with morbid fascination at the ominous heap that but a short while back had been a strong, hot-blooded man.
With the handkerchief pressed to his wound, and cursing softly with the pain, the Sergeant jerked his gun back into its holster again. Stepping forward, he inspected his handiwork critically. The two heavy, smashing bullets of the Colt’s .45, fired at close range, had done their deadly work effectively. One, penetrating a little beneath the left eye, had blown away a portion of the skull in its exit, whilst the other, tearing its passage through the thick, bull throat, had turned the place into a veritable shambles.
Still clutched in the stiffened right hand was a huge, unfamiliar type of pistol, which weapon the policeman examined with curious interest, coming—as it nearly had—to ending his earthly existence. The terrible simplicity of the creed that was his in such matters forbade his evincing the slightest vestige of pity or remorse for his dead enemy. The vision of a pale, pinched-faced young mother, with a little child, seemed to arise before his eyes, and the heart-broken cry of a stricken girl still rang in his ears and hardened his heart.
“Blast you!” he muttered savagely. “You only got what was comin’ to you. It was me or you, this trip, an’ no error. You had an even break, anyway.”
The agent turned aside, shaking in every limb.
“Let’s get!” he said, with an oath. “Ugh! I can’t stand it no longer. I guess sights and happenings like this ain’t nothing to you, Sergeant ... you’re used to it in your line of business. Besides, you’ve been through a war and must have killed and seen lots of fellers killed before. It don’t turn you up like it does me. Come away, for the love of God. By Gosh! but I could have sworn that place was locked. Petersen must have forgot to snap the padlock. I’ve got a duplicate key here. Guess I’d better lock everything up tight, eh? and give you the key.”
“Yes,” said Ellis. “And give Petersen strict orders not to open it up again till I say so. Nothing’s got to be touched till the coroner gives the word. Old Corbett acts in this district. Wonder whether he’s at his place?”
“Oh, he’s there, all right,” said Carey. “But he’s sick—all crippled up with rheumatism. His daughter—you know, the one that rides—she was in today and I was talking to her.”
“That settles it,” said Benton. “I’m goin’ to wire the O.C. now, an’ I’ll get him to send a coroner down by the mornin’ train. Let’s have that key for a bit. I want the doctor to have a look at this body.”