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Page 14
The dead man lay across two tables drawn together, his booted feet
sticking out stolidly beyond the bed still too short to accommodate his
length of body. Norton's eyes rested on the man's boots longer than
upon the cold face. Then, stepping back to the door so that all in the
barroom might catch the significance of his words, he said sharply:
"How many men of you know where Bisbee always carried his money when he
was on his way to bank?"
"In his boots!" answered two voices together.
"Come this way, boys. Take a look at his boots, will you?"
And as they crowded about the table, sensing some new development,
Galloway pushing well to the fore, Norton's vibrant voice rang out:
"It was a clean job getting him, and a clean job telling the story of
how it happened. But there wasn't overmuch time and in the rush. . . .
Tell me, Jim Galloway, how does it happen that the right boot is on the
left foot?"
CHAPTER IV
AT THE BANKER'S HOME
Rod Norton made no arrest. Leaving the card-room abruptly he signalled
to Julius Struve, the hotel keeper, to follow him. In the morning
Struve, in his official capacity as coroner, would demand a verdict.
Having long been in strong sympathy with the sheriff he was to be
looked to now for a frank prediction of the inquest's result. And,
very thoughtful about it all, he gravely agreed with Norton; the
coroner's jury, taking the evidence offered by Jim Galloway, Kid
Rickard, and Antone, would bring in a verdict of justifiable homicide.
"Later on we'll get 'em, Roddy . . . mebbe," he said finally. "But not
now. If you pulled the Kid it would just be running up the county
expense all for nothing."
The sheriff left him in silence and leading his horse went the few
steps to the hotel. Ignacio Chavez appearing opportunely Norton gave
his animal into the breed's custody; Ignacio, accustomed to doing odd
jobs for el Se�or Roderico Nortone, and to the occasional half dollars
resulting from such transactions, led the big gray away while the
sheriff entered the hotel. It had been a day of hard riding and scanty
meals, and he was hungry.
Bright and new and conspicuous, a gold-lettered sign at Struve's
doorway caught his eye and caused him to remember the wounded left hand
which had been paining him considerably through the long hot day. The
sign bore the name of Dr. V. D. Page with the words Physician and
Surgeon; in blue pencilled letters upon the practitioner's card,
affixed to the brass chain suspending the sign, were the further words:
"Room 5, Struve's Hotel."
The sheriff went to Room 5. It was at the front of the building, upon
the ground floor. The door opened almost immediately when he rapped.
Confronting him was the girl he had encountered at the arroyo. He
lifted his hat, looked beyond her, and said simply:
"I was looking for Dr. Page. Is he in now?"
"Yes," she told him gravely. "Come in, please."
He stepped across the threshold, his eyes trained to quick observation
of details taking in at a glance all there was to be seen. The room
showed all signs of a fresh unpacking, the one table and two chairs
piled high with odds and ends. For the most part the miscellany
consisted of big, fat books, bundles of towels and fresh white napkins,
rubber-stoppered bottles of varicolored contents, and black leather
cases, no doubt containing a surgeon's instruments. Through an open
door giving entrance to the adjoining room he noted further signs of
unpacking with a marked difference in the character of the litter; the
girl stepped quickly to this door, shutting out the vision of a
helter-skelter of feminine apparel.
"It is your hand?" she asked, as in most thoroughly matter of fact
fashion she put out her own for it. "Let me see it."
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