“Well, barely possible. Come to think of it, the wound did have that appearance; as though a horseshoe might have crushed the skull.”
“His horse wasn’t shod, Doc.”
“It wasn’t shod?”
The old doctor ran his hand through his white hair and squinted gravely.
“Hadn’t been for weeks,” said Hashknife.
“You are a detective?” asked the doctor quickly.
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“No, Doc; just curious.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” the doctor studied the ceiling of his office. “No rocks, no shoes. But the man had been dragged, Hartley. The skin showed evidence of that, and his shirt was rubbed through. More than that, his leg had been broken from a twist, and the pull of the stirrup.”
“Look at it this way,” suggested Hashknife. “Suppose Jim Wheeler met a man, who stopped him. This man strikes Wheeler over the head with a gun, knocking him off the saddle. Then this man robs him. Perhaps this man hooked one of Wheeler’s feet in the stirrup, struck the horse and let it run away. Or, again, the foot might have hung in the stirrup when the man fell from the horse. Wouldn’t it look as though it had been an accident?”