"There it is," pointed out the marshal. "Right by his elbow."
"Oh, yeah," said the district attorney, picking up the knife handle. From force of habit he fitted the broken part of the knife remaining attached to the handle to the part protruding from the wound. Of course they fitted perfectly.
The marshal ran his hand along Rafe's naked waist. Then he lifted one of Rafe's arms and let it go. The arm snapped stiffly back into position.
"Been dead about two hours," proffered the marshal.
"About that," agreed Felix. "What you lookin' at, Arthur?"
"This," replied the district attorney, holding up the handle of the butcher knife.
With his fingers he traced two initials on the wood. The initials were T.W.
"You can't tell me," said the district attorney belligerently, "that this butcher knife didn't come from the Walton ranch."
Sam Larder stated his belief at once. "She couldn't have done it, Arthur. Why Rafe's carved up like an issue steer. She——"
"She's a woman," interrupted the district attorney. "And a woman will do anything when her dander is up. And we know what this particular woman will do when she's mad. Didn't she try to split open Nate Samson's head when he was hardly more than joking with her? Didn't she throw down on us with a rifle without any excuse a-tall? I tell you this Hazel Walton is a murderess, and I'm going to see her hung."