So we clumb up to the spot where Olaf claimed to have handed the gun; but the’ wasn’t any scratch on the rock. “Did he fall from the ledge when he was shot?” asked the Friar.
“No,” sez one o’ the punchers. “He fell on the edge an’ hung on.”
“Did the bullet go clean through him?” asked the Friar.
“Yes, it went clear through,” sez the feller.
“Point with your finger just where it went in, an’ just where it came out,” sez the Friar.
The feller pointed with one finger in front, an’ one behind. The Friar took a rope an’ had me hold it behind the feller at just the level of that finger an’ then he made Spider stretch the rope so that it passed on a line with the finger in front. The whole crowd was interested by this time. “Now, then,” sez the Friar, “where could Olaf have stood to shoot such a line as that. He could not have shot while he was climbin’ up, nor he couldn’t have reached high enough while standin’ below.”
“He could, too,” sez Badger-face, “for Bud would have been leanin’ over, reachin’ for the gun.”
“If he had been shot while he was reachin’ over, he would have fallen from the ledge,” flashed the Friar.
“Maybe he did,” snapped Badger-face, just as quick. “Olaf here is as strong as a horse, an’ maybe he put him back on the ledge. He had blood on his hands an’ you can still see it on his shirt. A man don’t bleed much when shot in the belly.”
Olaf’s queer blue eyes turned from one to the other, but his face didn’t change expression much. He had about give up hope in the first place, an’ his face had the look of a hoss, after he’s been throwed four or five times an’ just keels over on his side an’ sez to himself: “Well, they’ve put the kibosh on me, an’ I don’t intend to make a fool of myself any more by tryin’ to break loose.” The rest of us was more excited about it than Olaf was himself.