"In there." Galloway nodded toward the card-room whose door had
remained closed. "In his pocket."

A few of the morbid followed as the sheriff went into the little room.
Already most of the men had seen and had no further curiosity. Norton
drew the blanket away, noted the wounds, three of them, two at the base
of the throat and one just above the left eye. Then, going through the
sheepman's pockets, he brought out a handful of coins. A few gold,
most of them silver dollars and half-dollars, in all a little over
fifty dollars.

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