“You know the fellow?”
“Yes, his name was Scott.”
“Well, he's been dead some hours, at least six I should say; shot just above the eye, and good Heavens! look here, Keith, at the size of this bullet wound; that's no man's gun in this country—no more than a '32' I'd say.”
“Miss Waite had a small revolver. She must have shot the fellow. But why did they leave the body here to be discovered?”
The sheriff arose to his feet, prowling about in the brightening glow of the dawn.
“They were in a hurry to get away, and knew he wouldn't be found before morning. A six hours' start means a good deal. They did drag him back out of sight—look here. This was where the struggle took place, and here is where the man fell,” tracing it out upon the ground. “The girl put up a stiff fight, too—see where they dragged her up the path. From the footprints there must have been half a dozen in the party. Get back out of the way, Sims, while I follow their trail.”
It was plain enough, now they had daylight to assist them, and led around the edge of the hill. A hundred feet away they came to where horses had been standing, the trampled sod evidencing they must have been there for some considerable time. Keith and the sheriff circled out until they finally struck the trail of the party, which led forth southwest across the prairie.
“Seven horses, one being led light,” said the former. “That was Scott's, probably.”
“That's the whole story,” replied the sheriff, staring off toward the bare horizon, “and the cusses have at least six hours the start with fresh horses.” He turned around. “Well, boys, that takes 'em out of my baliwick, I reckon. Some of the rest of you will have to run that gang down.”