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?”
“No doubt of it, my friend. And in that case, it would appear that Joe Rich had not only robbed Jim Wheeler, but had murdered him as well.”
“There’s a lot of ways to look at it, Doc,” smiled Hashknife, as he shook hands with the doctor. “I’m sure much obliged to yuh for yore help in this matter. Yuh would be doin’ me another favor, if yuh don’t tell anybody what we talked about.”
“The ethics of my profession preclude such a thing.”
“Well, thanks just the same, Doc. So long.”
Hashknife went back to the Pinnacle, where he found Honey and Sleepy buying drinks for the Heavenly Triplets, the three boys from the Flying H. They tried to get Hashknife to join them, but he was in no mood to join their festivities. After telling Sleepy he was going back to the ranch, he mounted and rode out of town.
Hashknife was satisfied after his talk with the doctor, that Jim Wheeler had not died through an accident. That Joe Rich should have found Wheeler dragged to unconsciousness and have robbed him was too much for Hashknife to believe. Rich had been knocked down by Wheeler, and Hashknife, not knowing Rich, would not have any idea of Rich’s nature.