Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead. It was not a mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that the regard that had once been his for Will still existed. But he was sorry. Sorry that the man’s road had carried him to such disaster. He remembered Peter’s definition of the one-way trail. Will’s path had certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it with––well, he had traveled it.
Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their paths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, and now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very near together again.
But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor. His authority was once more undisputed. He stood out in the centre of the room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminous eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.
“Folks,” he began, “murder has been done––sheer, bloody murder. When fellers gits busy with guns, an’ each has his chance, an’ one of ’em gits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an’ I guess we treat it accordin’. But this is low-down murder. We was told it was a stabbing, but I’ve cast my eyes over the body, an’ I seem to see a different story. Judging by what I found, I’d say Will Henderson was hit a smashin’ blow by something heavy, which must sure ’a’ knocked him senseless, an’ then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with a knife. Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly, mean-spirited skunk who hadn’t the grit to face his enemy decently with a gun, and who doesn’t need a heap of mercy when we get him. 359 That’s how I read the case. All of you have seen the body, so I need say no more on this.”
Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.
“You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing. An’ in the interests of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty’s clear. You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will Henderson’s death.”
There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while all eyes were focused upon Jim’s face. There was no doubt but that the majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts they believed to be his.
But they were doomed to disappointment. They certainly saw a change of expression, for Jim was puzzled. Why had Doc Crombie not produced the knife and the handkerchiefs? But perhaps he wanted his story first, and then would confront him with the evidence against him. Yet his manner was purely judicial. It in no way suggested that he possessed damning evidence.
He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the doctor’s face.
“I’m puzzled, Doc,” he said quietly. “There’s certainly something I can’t make out. I told you all I had to tell,” he went on. “I was out on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying dead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at first realize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it, discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clothes were torn open, his 360 chest bare, and a large knife, such as any prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged right up to the hilt.” There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment went round the room. “Wait a moment,” he continued, holding up his hand for silence. “I discovered more than that. I found two handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad. Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as bandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Have you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue for sure?”