"Well?" asked John Engle who had arrived, talked with Struve, and now
looked anxiously to Patten. Patten shrugged.
"Heavy-caliber bullet ripped along the side of his head," he said
thoughtfully. "I am going to make a second examination now. Doubtless
just the shock stunned him. That or striking his head as he pitched
forward; there's another slight wound, a scalp wound, showing where his
head hit as he fell."
A moment later Tom Cutter came in hastily, stood for a little staring
with frowning, troubled eyes at the quiet form on the bed, and went
away, tugging at his lip, his frown deepening. He had his hands full
to-night, had Tom Cutter, and no one but himself knew how he wanted Rod
Norton to tell him just what to do, to show him the way to make no
mistake. Leaving the room he had gone no farther than the front door
when he swung about and returned.
"May I have a word with you, Mr. Engle?" he asked.
Engle nodded and followed him silently. Out in the street, in the full
light of Struve's porch-lamp, Cutter stopped, glancing about him to
make sure that he was not overheard.
"You know all about the shooting of Brocky Lane up in the mountains,"
he said hurriedly. "Rod told me you did. Well, I just gathered in
Moraga!"
"Moraga?" muttered Engle.
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