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.

For there--where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the
"coronet"--was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse