"We never dreamed he'd been shot till we got him clean down to the drug-store," Bridges supplemented. "Shot in the back, too."
Questions were flying back and forth now. Profiting by the confusion,
Rouletta dragged Broad aside and queried, breathlessly:
"Was he dead—quite dead—?"
"Oh, sure!"
"Who—shot him?" The question came with difficulty. Lucky stared at his interrogator queerly, then he shrugged.
"Quien sabe? Nobody seen or heard the shooting. He'd been croaked a long while when we found him."
For a moment the two eyed each other silently. "Do you think—?"
Rouletta turned her white face toward the cashier's cage.
"More 'n likely. He was bitter—he made a lot of cracks around the Barracks. The first thing the Police said when we notified 'em was, 'Where's Phillips?' We didn't know the boy was out until that very minute or—we'd 'a' done different. We'd 'a' left the Count in the drift and run Phillips down and framed an alibi. Think of us, his pals, turnin' up the evidence!" Lucky breathed an oath.
"Oh, why—?" moaned the girl. "He—It was so useless. Everything was all right. Perhaps—after all, he didn't do it."
"You know him as well as I do. I'm hoping he had better sense, but—he's got a temper. He was always talking about the disgrace."