It was not a hat that would ordinarily be discarded, being a black Stetson, more trampled than worn. There was no name in it, except that of the maker. Chuck looked it over critically.
“Lotsa black Stetsons wore around here,” he said. “Mebby some of Butch Reimer’s punchers got drunk and lost it.”
Hashknife dismounted and stepped over to the railing. Thirty feet below him was a dry-wash, with here and there a clump of stunted bushes, piles of drift. Farther to the right was the river, only about sixty feet across at this time of the year.
Suddenly Hashknife leaned forward, looking almost directly down. Lying against one of the old pilings, half-hidden in a tangle of brush and drift, was the body of a man. Hashknife called Chuck, and together they looked down at it.
From that distance it was impossible to identify him, as he was partly covered by the bushes. They led their horses back to the end of the bridge and tied them to a tree, after which they worked their way down to the river level.
Chuck did not like dead men, so he allowed Hashknife to drag the body out of the tangle. It was Billy DuMond. A round blue hole in the center of his forehead showed them that his death had been no accident. Chuck squatted down on his haunches and tore up several cigarette-papers in trying to roll a cigarette.
“Hit square between the eyes,” he marveled. “Somebody around here is a damned good shot.”
Chuck didn’t pay much attention to Hashknife, who was examining the body, and he did not notice that Hashknife had taken some papers from DuMond’s pocket. There were three envelopes, containing letters, which had evidently been carried a long time, and a folded sheet of paper.
Hashknife walked farther along under the bridge, as though searching for something more, and unfolded the sheet of paper. It was an inky scrawl, which read:
I.O.U. Seventy-eight hundred dollars.
($7800.00)
Angel McCoy