n shot in here! My
compartment's next to this, you know, and I heard two shots and rushed
in."

It was a horrible and unnerving sight that greeted the porter's eyes.
Mr. Clements was still visibly affected by it as he talked to the
_Sentinel_ reporter in Big Cloud. The unknown murdered man lay
pitifully huddled on the floor, lifeless and dead, a great bullet wound
in one temple and another along the side of his neck that must have
severed the jugular vein. It was as though blood had rained upon the
victim. He was literally covered with it. He was already past aid,
being quite dead. Conductor Hurley was quickly summoned. But
investigation only deepened the mystery. Suicide was out of the
question because there was no weapon to be found. Mr. Starke, at his
own request, was searched, but had no revolver. Mr. Starke, however,
has been held by the police.

The _Sentinel_, without wishing to infringe upon the sphere of the
authorities or cast aspersions upon their acumen, but in the simple
furtherance of justice, offers the suggestion that, as the compartment
window was open, the assassin, whoever he was, hurled the revolver out
of the window after committing his dastardly and unspeakable crime; and
the _Sentinel_ hereby offers _Twenty-five Dollars Reward_ for the
recovery of the revolver. Lawlessness and crime, we had fondly
believed, was stamped out of the West, and we raise our voice in
protest against the return of desperadoes, bandits, and train robbers,
and we solemnly warn all those of that caliber that they will not be
tolerated in the new West, and we call upon all public-spirited
citizens in whose veins red blood flows to rise up and put them down
with an iron and merciless----

There were still three columns. Sammy Durgan read them voraciously.
At the end, he sucked hard on the black cutty. The black cutty was out.

"To think of the likes of that!" muttered Sammy Durgan heavily, as he
dug for a match. "The fellow that wrote the piece--'twill be that
little squint-eyed runt Labatt--is not the fool I thought him. It's
right, he is; what with murders and desperadoes no man's life's
safe--it is not! And to think of it right on this same railroad! And
who knows"--Sammy Durgan rose with sudden haste--"but 'twas right on
this same spot where I am this blessed minute, for the paper says it
was close to Dam River, that the poor devil was shot dead and foully
killed! And--" The match flamed over the