But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the doctor’s face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it was obvious that this was all news to them.
Doc shook his head.
“Ther’ was no knife––no scarves. But say,” he asked sharply, “why didn’t you speak of ’em before?”
“It didn’t occur to me. I thought you’d sure find ’em. So––I guess they’ve been removed since. Probably the murderer thought them incriminating–––”
“A hell of a fine yarn.” It was Smallbones’ voice that now made itself heard. “Say, don’t you’se fellows see his drift? It’s a yarn to put you off, an’ make you think the murderer’s been around while he’s been in here. Guess him an’ his friend Peter’s made it up while I–––”
“After I threw you out of here,” interjected Peter coldly. “Keep your tongue easy, or I’ll have to handle you again.”
But Smallbones’ fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoy Peter all he could.
“Yes, I dessay you would. But you can’t blind us like a lot of gophers with a dogone child’s yarn like that. If those things had been there they’d ha’ been there when Will was found by Doc––– Say,” he cried, turning with inspiration upon Jim, “wher’s your knife? You mostly carry one. I see your sheath, but ther’ ain’t no knife in it.”
He pointed at the back of Jim’s waist, which was turned toward him. Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of the accusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld. The sheath was empty.