Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk.  Seen under winter conditions the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party negotiated its main street.  A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the rear of the doctor’s residence.  From long usage this place had come to be accepted as the common morgue of the district.  After arranging details with the coroner anent the morrow’s inquest, and carefully searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to the livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care of their horses.  In appearance that worthy would have made a passable understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and short of breath.  In addition to his regular calling he filled—­or was supposed to fill—­the office of “town constable” and pound-keeper.  A sort of village “Dogberry.”  Incidentally it might be mentioned that he also could have laid claim to be a “wictim of circumstances”; having but recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the Dickensian character.  The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and collectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day’s events it was satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not struck Cow Run as yet.  For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee’s stable-hand.

“Ar!” wheezed Lee.  “It’s a good job yu’ fellers is come.  That ther ‘Windy Moran’s’ bin raisin’ hell over in the hotel th’ las’ two days.  He got to fightin’ ag’in las’ night with Larry Blake—­over that hawss.  Bob Ingalls an’ Chuck Reed an’ th’ bunch dragged ’em apart an’ tol’ Larry to beat it back to his ranch—­which he did.  Windy—­they got him to bed, an’ kep’ him ther all night, as he swore he’d shoot Larry.  He’s still over ther, nasty-drunk an’ shootin’ off what he’s goin’ t’ do.”

He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in his throat:  “Stirrin’ times! ar! stirrin’ times! . . .  Now—­’bout that ther hobo, Sargint—­”

“Aw! damn th’ hobo!” exploded Slavin impatiently.  “Here, Nick! show me Windy’s harse.  Fwhat?  Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now!  Yu’ll know all ’bout that later.”

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air, indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the Police team.  Slavin backed the animal out.  It seemed to be lame.  With fierce eagerness they examined its “nigh-hind” leg—­and found what they sought for.