“You’re going to have a nice shot in the arm so you can sleep,” I promised him, stepping over the corpse to take the black gun from the bed. “I’m going to stay here tonight and we’ll spend most of tomorrow sifting Poisonville affairs.”

The old man was tired. His voice, when he profanely and somewhat long-windedly told me what he thought of my impudence in deciding what was best for him, barely shook the windows.

I took off the dead man’s cap for a better look at his face. It didn’t mean anything to me. I put the cap back in place.

When I straightened up the old man asked, moderately:

“Are you getting anywhere in your hunt for Donald’s murderer?”

“I think so. Another day ought to see it finished.”

“Who?” he asked.