them. Here," he rose and touched the wall in two spots about the height of a man's head above the floor, "bullet hole, and bullet hole, when he miss."
"What! what!" cried Trant, "two bullet holes above the shoes?"
"Yes; so."
"And the body—that lay near the shoes?"
"Oh, no; the body here!" the Indian moved along the end wall almost to the other corner. "One shell beside it that miss fire, one empty shell. Neal Sheppard's matchbox—that empty, too—on floor. Around body burned matches."
"Burned matches around the body?" Trant echoed in still greater excitement.
"Yes; and on body."
"On it?"
"Yes; man, after he shot, go to him and burn matches—I think—to see him dead."
"Then they must have shot in the dark!" Trant's excited face flushed red with sudden and complete comprehension. "Of course, dolt that I was! With these shells in my hand, I should have guessed it! That is as plain a reason for this peculiar distribution of the shells as it is for the matches which, as the Indian says, the man must have taken from your brother's match-box to look at him and make sure he was dead." He had whirled to face his client. "It was all shot in the dark."
"Shot in the dark!" Sheppard echoed. He seemed to have caught none of the spirit of his young adviser's new comprehension; but, merely echoing his words, had turned from him and stared steadily out of the
