“There seems to be a lot of curiosity cropping up about this old murder,” he volunteered, when Wilding broached the subject. “Another man was in here yesterday asking about the same thing. Tall, good-looking fellow, dressed like a cowman and wearing a gun. Know him?”
Wilding asked a few further details and recognized the description as that of De Launay. This satisfied him, as he had no doubt that mademoiselle’s nominal husband was employed on the same errand as himself. So he merely stated that it was probably the man in whose interests he was working.
“Well, I didn’t know anything about him and didn’t discuss the matter with him. Fact is, I never heard of the murder so I couldn’t tell him much about it.”
“Still, I’m sure there was an inquest at the time,” said Wilding.
“There probably was, but that wouldn’t mean any too much. In the old days the coroner’s juries had a way of returning any old verdict that struck their fancies. I’ve heard of men being shot tackling some noted gun fighter and the jury bringing in a verdict of suicide because he ought to have known better than to take such a chance. Then it’s by no means uncommon to find them laying a murder whose perpetrator was unknown or out of reach against a Chinaman or Indian or some extremely unpopular individual on the theory that, if he hadn’t done this 196 one, he might eventually commit one and, anyway, they ought to hang him on general principles and get rid of him. This was in 1900, you say?”
“About then.”
“That doesn’t sound early enough for one of the freak verdicts. Still, this country was still primitive at that time, and they might have done almost anything. Anyway there are no coroner’s records going back to that date, so I’m afraid that I can’t help you or your client.”
Wilding was discouraged, but he thought there might still be a chance in another direction, although the prospects appeared slim. Leaving the coroner he sought out the sheriff’s office and encountered a burly individual who welcomed him as some one to relieve the monotony of his days. This man was also a newcomer, or comparatively so. He had fifteen years of residence behind him. But he, too, knew nothing of French Pete’s murder.
“To be sure,” he said, after reflecting, “I’ve heard something about it and I have a slight recollection that I’ve run onto it at some time. There used to be considerable talk about the mine this here Basco had found and many a man has hunted all over the map after it. But it ain’t never been found. I’ve heard that he was shot from ambush by a gunman, and his name might have been Louisiana. Seems to me that whoever shot him must have done it because he had found the mine, and since the mine 197 ain’t ever been discovered it looks like the murderer must have wanted its secret to remain hidden. That looks reasonable, don’t it?”
“There might be something in it,” admitted Wilding.