“I felt it,” smiled the messenger, wincing slightly from Doctor Curzon’s ministrations.
“What did it look like?”
“Very large calibre—about six inches in diameter.” The man laughed at his description. “Weighed a ton. Seriously, I can’t describe it, but it seems to me that it had a white handle. Perhaps it was yellow, like bone. You know what I mean—not pearl. It was a Colt, I am sure.”
Slim sighed deeply.
“Man wear any rings on his fingers?”
“I didn’t see any.”
Slim went back uptown. Joe Rich carried a Colt .45 with a yellow bone handle. Slim remembered when Joe had carved out those pieces of bone, working for days, at odd times, shaping the grip to fit his hand. Slim didn’t know of another cowpuncher in the country that carried a bone-handled gun.
The news spread quickly around the town that the safe of the passenger train had been blown by a lone bandit who wore silver stars on his cuffs and carried a bone-handled gun. Joe Rich’s name did not need to be mentioned. Len Kelsey did nothing, because there was nothing to be done. The telegraph wires were down and there was no use of his riding out into the storm. Even if the robber did get out at the river bridge, the storm would wipe out any tracks he might make, and even if there were no storm, how could he track one man?
Len Kelsey was very wise. He stayed at home where it was warm and dry, and went to bed. He had sufficient description to prove who had pulled the job, and he had already worn out two perfectly good horses trying to find this elusive young man.