“They sent me down here.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, we ain’t got none. If I remember rightly, somebody out at the Circle M had a .41. Mebbe it was Mex Skinner. Anyway, it was one of ’em, and I’m sure it wasn’t Mendoza, ’cause he always buys .45’s. Yuh might borrow some shells out there, or I could order yuh some from Broad Arrow. They’d probably have some.”
“No, don’t bother, and thank yuh very much.”
“Yo’re welcome. Come in again.”
Cultus pondered deeply over this information. There did not seem to be any way in the world to connect Mendoza or either of his two men with the killing of Ben Kelton. The bullet was unmistakably a .41. Cultus had owned several of them, and the ammunition was familiar.
He went down and talked with the doctor, who was also the coroner, about the murder of Ben Kelton. The doctor was busy with the remains of Buck Gillis, but he stopped long enough to inform Cultus that Ben Kelton had been killed by two bullets, which had gone entirely through him, and that there was no way to determine the calibre.
“Yes, I remember seeing Kelton’s gun and also the one the sheriff took from Nolan,” he told Cultus. “Both of them were .45’s.”
Cultus thanked him and went away, no wiser than he had been before. Blaze Nolan had told him that he was sure he had heard one of the bullets strike the building across the street, and Cultus had been able to find only one bullet hole in the wall—made by a .41. One thing seemed pretty probable. Three .45 shots had been fired during the Kelton killing, therefore were not the other three shots fired all .41’s?
The posse came in about eight o’clock that night. Cultus went down to Bad News’s office, but the deputy was in bad humour.
“Rode the hoofs off our broncs for nothin’,” he said savagely.