"'Slim' must 'a' been standin' about here," guessed Muldoon, illustrating his theory by taking the position he meant. "The bullets would hit the partition close to the center, wouldn't they?"
Beatrice had gone straight to the plank wall. "They're not here," she told them.
"Must be. According to Lindsay's story the fellow was aiming straight at it."
"Well, they're not here. See for yourself."
She was right. There was no evidence whatever that any bullets had passed through the partition. They covered every inch of the cross wall in their search.
"Lindsay must have been mistaken," decided Whitford, hiding his keen disappointment. "This man Collins couldn't have been firing in this direction. Of course everything was confusion. No doubt they shifted round in the dark and—"
He stopped, struck by an odd expression on the face of his daughter. She had stooped and picked up a small fragment of shaving from the floor. Her eyes went from it to a plank in the partition and then back to the thin crisp of wood.
"What is it, honey?" asked Whitford.
The girl turned to Muldoon, alert in every quivering muscle. "That express wagon—the one leaving the house as we drove up—Did you notice it?"
"Number 714," answered Tim promptly.