aywright thoughtfully. "There were witnesses, you say?
Some of the Craigmiles cow-boys, I suppose. You took their word for
these little details?"

Bromley made a sorrowful face. "No; it was Billy's own story. The poor
fellow lived long enough to tell me what I've been passing on to you. He
tried to tell me something else, something about Manuel and the woman,
but there wasn't time enough."

Wingfield had found the long-stemmed pipe and was filling it from the
jar of tobacco on the table. "Was that all?" he inquired.

"All but the finish--which was rather heart-breaking. When he could no
longer speak he kept pointing to me and to his rifle, which had been
brought in with him. I understood he was trying to tell me that I should
keep the gun."

"You did keep it?"

"Yes; I have it yet."

"Let me have a look at it, will you?"

The weapon was found, and Wingfield examined it curiously. "Is it
loaded?" he asked.

Bromley nodded. "I guess it is. It hasn't been out of its case or that
cupboard since the day of the killing."

The playwright worked the lever cautiously, and an empty cartridge shell
flipped out and fell to the floor. "William Sanderson's last shot," he
remarked reflectively, and went on slowly pumping the lever until eleven
loaded cartridges lay in an orderly row on the table. "You were wrong in
your count of the number of shots fired, or else the magazine was not
full when Sanderson began," he commented. Then, as Blacklock was about
to pick up one of the cartridges: "Hold on, Jerry; don't disturb them,
if you please."

Blacklock laughed nervously. "Mr. Wingfield's got a notion," he said.
"He's always getting 'em."

"I have," was the quiet reply. "But first let me ask you, Bromley: What
sort of a rifle marksman was Sanderson?"

"One of the best I ever knew. I have seen him drill a silver dollar
three times out of five at a hundred yards when he was feeling well.
There is your element of mystery again: I could never understand how he
missed the Mexican three or four times in succession at less than
seventy-five yards--unless Manuel's first shot was the one that hit him.
That might have been it. Billy was all sand; the kind of man to go on
shooting after he was killed."

"My notion is that he didn't have the slightest chance in the wide
world," was Wingfield's comment. "Let us prove or disprove it if we
can," and he opened a blade of his penknife and dug the point of it into
the bullet of the cartri