“No; shot in the head; bullet went on. You’re not trying to find out who killed him, are you?”
“Why not?”
“No question about Pete Conley, is there?”
“Might be, Doc. Tell me about how Mallette looked. Was he shot at close range?”
“Guess not. Not close enough to get burned. They said he had been drinking heavily. Drank absinth with his liquor. Darn bad combination. Wore cowboy boots. Funny thing about his boots. When I took them off I found a lot of gravel in them. I told the sheriff about it.” The doctor laughed heartily. “He said Mallette wasn’t very clean.”
“Gravel in his boots, eh?” mused Hashknife. “Man would have to go without a bath a long time to acquire gravel.”
“He would,” laughed the doctor, picking up his lines. “I’ve got to be going on, boys.”
They told him good-by and rode on. Hashknife’s eyes were keen now and his lips shut tightly. Sleepy looked closely at him, groaned and yanked his hat down viciously.
Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.
“What do you know?” asked Roaring.