“I guess he shot a .44 this time,” said Cultus, as he handed the bullets to Bad News. “Lock these up, will yuh? We might need ’em.”
“What is your theory?” asked the doctor curiously.
“Of no value at all,” replied Cultus softly. “Yuh see, I liked him.”
“That’s the worst of bein’ a sheriff,” complained Bad News. “Yuh always find folks who are friendly to the criminal.”
“I thought you liked Blaze Nolan,” said Cultus.
“I do. That’s the hell of it.”
Later on that afternoon Cultus found Jules Mendoza and Tony Gibbs in Henderson’s store, but neither of them had much to say. They were purchasing a small bill of goods, and Cultus noted that Mendoza bought several boxes of .44 revolver cartridges. He wanted to ask Mendoza if any of his outfit used a .41, but decided not to, as there were several other men in the store.
It was about ten o’clock when Cultus decided to go to bed, and as he came in the little lobby of the hotel the proprietor handed him a sealed envelope, which was grimy from handling. On it was pencilled the name Collins.
“I dunno where it came from,” explained the man. “The first I seen of it, it was here on my desk. There ain’t no other Collins in this town; so it must be for you.”
Cultus thanked him and took it to his room. The enclosed sheet of paper was rather interesting. It read: