“Possibly, Judge. But why kill Old Ben? He was—oh, I forgot about the new strike they say he made!”
“He vars spending gold,” said Oscar.
“Ay saw it.”
“Chunks of raw gold,” remarked Judge. “I saw some of it. Crushed out of gray quartz. And now he’s dead.”
“You have your shoes on the wrong feet, Judge,” said Henry.
“It might change our luck,” said Judge. “Let ’em stay.”
The body of the old prospector had not been moved. Doctor Bogart, the coroner, was waiting for them. Ben Todd had a little, old shack a short distance off the main street, where he batched, when in town. A load of buckshot had blown out one of the windows, and Ben Todd was sprawled on his bed. Evidently he had been killed, just as he was about to retire.
His pockets still held several chunks of gold, possibly worth twenty dollars, but he had no money. On a shelf was an old, tin tobacco box, in which were some odds and ends, and in it was a folded paper. Henry unfolded it on the table. It was Ben Todd’s will, written in an inky sprawl, and said:
I hereby give every thing I own to Violet La Verne because she grub-staked me. I ain’t got no relatives.
—Ben Todd.