Free Twisted Trails by Orlando Rigoni

killed?"
    "Arrow. Nice quiet job," McCune answered. "Straight into his heart from the back. I examined him."
    "Since when are you doing the doctor's work for him, Mr. McCune? Take the body to the infirmary, have the doctor examine it, and then have him report to me."
    "Yes, sir," McCune said.
    Before long Dr. Cranny came in, his bloated face twitching. From the multiple folds that swaddled them, his eyes shone like fugitive mice.
    "Well, Captain, what did you find?" Major Hornaby asked.
    "The deceased had a hole in his back; his heart was pierced," the doctor reported.
    It was a report the rawest recruit could have given. Cranny was either getting drunk again, or just sobering up from the last time. There was liquor in the medical stores. He exuded it.
    "How long has he been dead?"
    Cranny straightened his shoulders, and his face stopped twitching. For a moment professional pride, the almost forgotten will to be a man, shone in his eyes.
    "I would say seven to eight hours, Major," the doctor said.
    "Have you the arrow that killed him?"
    "I have an arrow."
    "What do you mean by that?"
    "I mean I have the arrow that was in the wound. It didn't kill him."
    "So what did kill him?"
    "He was killed with a knife. The arrow was thrust into the wound to make it look like an Indian had done it."
    Hornaby whistled softly and drummed on his desk.
    "Is there anything else you can tell me?"
    "He showed signs of having been struck in the face, and there was a small cut on his throat."
    "Have you examined the Indians in the guardhouse?" Hornaby inquired.
    Cranny's face began to contort again. It was as though it were infested with invisible fleas.
    "Why should I examine the filthy beggars? I can give you a report on them right now. Lice, dirt, bad diet. The biggest curse they carry is the white man. They're pushed and starved and robbed," Cranny said bitterly.
    "All right, all right, Doctor. That'll be all. Tell McCune I want to see him."
    For another brief interval, Cranny drummed up a few shreds of dignity.
    "I'm not your striker, Major," he said.
    Hornaby sighed. "Oh, go on; get out." He pounded his desk for his striker and sent him after McCune.
    McCune entered, and because there was no one else about, he didn't pretend to salute. He pushed his hat to the back of his balding head and spat accurately into the polished brass cuspidor.
    "Well, Major," McCune said, "you've got a murder to solve. Happy?"
    "Do you think I should ignore it?"
    "No. But it's going to be hard to find the hombre who did it."
    "We'll decide on that after we've made a try, Sergeant. Was there any kind of positive evidence near where the body was found?"
    "I wasn't there," McCune said. "Lieutenant Skaggs was in charge of the patrol. I just picked them up when they reached the post."
    "Then why didn't Skaggs report the murder?"
    "That, Major, you will have to ask Skaggs."
    "Did you talk with him?"
    "Yes, I did."
    "Come on; don't make me drag it out of you. What did he say?"
    "He said they found the man lying as though he had fallen from a horse. There were only the tracks of one horse. Skaggs followed the tracks some distance, and they merged with the tracks of two other horses. Farther on, the tracks of the horses diverged, two of them going toward the Lone Chance, the other toward the village."
    "What do you make out of that story?"
    "Why, I haven't tried to make anything out of it. It's your baby."
    "Look, Mac, why don't you grow up? Your resentment of my authority is a bit childish. After all, it wasn't my fault you didn't get that commission."
    "Major, I know you failed to recommend me, and I know why. You wouldn't get to first base without me. I've been pulling chestnuts for you for years."
    "I don't care to discuss that now, Mac," Hornaby said evasively. "I want you to go out and release the Utes who were brought in drunk last night. I think they're sober enough to go home now."
    "Release them? Why, they may be the murderers!" McCune said.
    "The doctor said the