inute," she declared hotly.

"Just a second. There may be another one.... Oh, all right, go on,
then," he called out, as she whirled her pony and started off. "I'll
catch you. Ride slow!"

He looked after her with a smile of amusement, before renewing his
efforts with the stick, holding his bridle reins with one hand so that
his horse could not follow hers. To his disappointment there seemed to
be nothing in the hole, but his prodding suddenly developed an amazing
fact. He was on the point of dropping the stick and mounting his horse,
when he noticed a small piece of metal in the leaves and grass at the
mouth of the hole. It was an empty cartridge shell.

"By Glory!" he exclaimed, as he examined it. "A clew, or I'm a sinner!"

Swinging into his saddle, he raced after Dorothy, shouting to her as he
rode. In her pique, she would not answer his hail, or turn in her
saddle; but he was too exultant to care. He was concerned only with
overtaking her that he might tell her what he had found.

"For the love of Mike!" he said, when by a liberal use of his spurs he
caught up with her. "What do you think this is, a circus?"

"You can keep up, can't you?" she retorted banteringly.

"Sure, I can keep up, all right." He reached out and caught her bridle
rein, pulling her pony down to a walk in spite of her protests. "I want
to show you something. You can't see it riding like a jockey. Look
here!" He handed her the shell. "You see, if I had come when you wanted
me to, I wouldn't have found it. That's what's called the detective
instinct, I reckon," he added, with a grin. "Guess I'm some little
Sherlock, after all."

"Whose is it?" She turned the shell over in her palm a trifle gingerly.

"Look!" He took it from her and pointed out where it had been dented by
the firing-pin. "I reckon you wouldn't know, not being up in fire-arms.
The hammer that struck this shell didn't hit true; not so far off as to
miss fire, you understand, but it ain't in line exactly. That tells me a
lot."

"What does it tell you?" She looked up at him quickly.

"Well," he spoke slowly, "there ain't but one gun in Crawling Water that
has that peculiarity, that I know of, and that one belongs, or did
belong, to Tug Bailey."

She caught at his arm impulsively so that both horses were brought to a
standstill.

"Then _he_ shot Jensen, Lem?"

Her voice was tremulous with eagerness, for although she had never
doubted Wade or Santry; had never thought fo