“Who shoots a .41 sixgun around here, Bad News?”
“Nobody that I know about. Why?”
“I was just wonderin’.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Didja think Buck was shot with one?”
“No, I didn’t suppose he was, but I was a little curious.”
“Let’s go down and see the doctor; he might have ’em by now.”
They walked down to the office, and the doctor produced both bullets from an old china cup he had on a shelf. Bad News handled them gingerly. One was rather badly battered, but the other was almost perfect in shape.
“Forty-five,” said Bad News.
Cultus didn’t deny it, but asked the doctor if he had a pair of pliers, which were quickly produced. After considerable difficulty, Cultus managed to draw a bullet from one of his own cartridges, while the other two men watched him curiously. Then he inserted the bullet which had been removed from the body. It fit loosely.
“By golly, that’s a .44!” exclaimed Bad News. “I thought Blaze wore a .45.”