Racey dropped his head.  The sheriff was speaking.

“Mac,” he was saying, “yo’re lyin’.  Yo’re lyin’ as fast as a hoss can trot.  You never got yore black eye on this door.  I dunno why yo’re sayin’ you did, but I’m gonna find out.  Till—­”

“You won’t have far to go to find out,” struck in Racey Dawson.  “I know how he got his black eye.”

“How?” demanded the sheriff, his grizzled eyebrows drawing together.

“Dale gave it to him,” was the answer pat and pithy.

“He did not!” The saloon-keeper began to roar instantly, and had to be quieted by Kansas Casey.

When order was restored Racey explained his deductions.  The sheriff listened in silence.  Then he went to the body of the dead man, and examined the bruised and broken right hand.

“I’m tellin’ you,” declared Racey with finality, “he hit somebody when he broke that hand.”

“He might ‘a’ broke it when he fell after being shot,” put in Luke Tweezy.

The sheriff shook his head.  “He couldn’t fall hard enough to break them bones as bad as that.  It’s like Racey says.  Question is, who did he hit?  McFluke’s eye and McFluke’s lies are a good enough answer for me.”

“You’ll have to prove it!” snapped Luke Tweezy.

“I expect we’ll do that, Luke,” the sheriff said, calmly.  “Have you agreed on a verdict, Judge?”

“We had,” replied Dolan.  “We was about satisfied that a plain ‘killin’ by a person unknown,’ was as good as any, but I expect now we’ll change it to murder with the recommendation that McFluke be arrested on suspicion.  Whadda you say, boys?”

“Shore,” chorussed the “boys,” and hiccuped like so many bullfrogs.

“Whu-why not lul-let the shush-shpicion shlide,” suggested one bright spirit, “an’ cue-convict him right now an’ lul-lynch him after shupper whu-when it’s cool?”

“No,” vetoed Dolan, “it can’t be done.  He’s gotta be indicted and held for the Grand Jury at Piegan City.  I ain’t allowed to try murder cases.”

“Tut-too bad,” mourned the bright spirit, and refused to be comforted.

“Can I take him now, Judge?” inquired Chuck Morgan, referring to the dead man.

“Any time,” nodded Dolan.

Racey Dawson, whose eyes that day were missing nothing, saw that Jack Harpe was looking steadily at Luke Tweezy.  Luke’s nod was barely perceptible.

“Where were you thinking of taking him, Chuck?” was Tweezy’s query.

“Moccasin Spring,” Chuck replied, laconically.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Luke Tweezy.  “Better save trouble by taking him to yore house.”

It was coming now—­the answer to one puzzle at least.  Racey was sure of it.  He was not disappointed.

“And why had I better take him to my house?” demanded Chuck.

“Because the ranch at Moccasin Spring don’t belong to the Dale family any more,” Tweezy explained, smoothly.  “Dale has turned over the place to Lanpher and me.”