"No doubt about that, Joe!" rejoined the gambler.

"I suppose it was robbery?" said the other man, who had not spoken
before.

"Very likely," answered the colonel. "We have not examined the place,
however; we shall wait for the proper officials."

"Who do you want, Colonel?"

"Coroner Taylor, and I suppose the sheriff," replied Harbison.

The man nodded.

"All right, I'll bring them; and say, what about the prosecuting
attorney?" as he turned to leave.

"Yes, bring Moxlow, too, if you can find him."

The man hurried from the room. Gilmore leaned against the counter and
smoked imperturbably. Joe Montgomery, with his great slouching shoulders
arched, and his grimy hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, stared
at the dead man in stolid wonder. Colonel Harbison's glance sought the
same object but with a sensitive shrinking as from an ugly brutal thing.
A clock ticked loudly in the office; there was the occasional fall of
cinders from the grate of the rusted stove that heated the place; these
were sounds that neither Gilmore nor the colonel had heard before.
Presently a lean black cat stole from the office and sprang upon the
counter; it purred softly.