Send somebody round to the
corrals, and let me know where they stabled their horses. If they
left any papers or saddle-bags, get them for me."
Fifteen minutes later Collins was in the saddle ready for the
chase, and only waiting for his volunteer posse to join him. They
were just starting when a frightened Chinaman ran into the plaza
with the news that there had been shooting just back of his
laundry on the edge of town and that a man had been killed.
When the sheriff reached the spot, he lowered himself from the
saddle and limped over to the black mass huddled against the wall
in the bright moonlight. He turned the riddled body over and
looked down into the face of the dead man. I was that of the
outlaw, Scott Dailey. That the body had been thoroughly searched
was evident, for all around him were scattered his belongings.
Here an old letter and a sack of tobacco, its contents emptied on
the ground; there his coat and vest, the linings of each of them
ripped out and the pockets emptied. Even the boots and socks of
the man had been removed, so thorough had been the search.
Whatever the murderers had been looking for it was not money,
since his purse, still fairly well lined with greenbacks, was
found behind a cactus bush a few yards away.
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