Ellery, a not insensitive soul, looked at the blanket, too — anywhere but at those staring feminine eyeballs.
The Inspector was saying: “Here, you — precinct man? — take, a couple of the boys and collect every goldarned gun in the joint. Yes, every one! Rustle some cards or something and tag every weapon with its owner’s name. Or bearer’s name, if he doesn’t own it. And don’t just ask for ’em; I want every man-jack and woman on this floor searched. These people are accustomed to going heeled, remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And,” added the Inspector thoughtfully, turning his bright little eyes on the silent trio staring at the covered body, “you might start with these folks here. The old feller, the curly-headed lad — yes, and the lady too.”
Struck by a sudden thought, Ellery turned sharply and searched for someone. The man was not in this group about the body. The man with the single arm who had handled his horse so masterfully... He caught sight of the one-armed rider far across the arena, sitting stolidly on the floor and flipping a Bowie knife up and down, up and down... He turned back in time to see Wild Bill Grant raise his arms stiffly and submit to a search, his eyes still dead with pain. The holster he wore strapped about his thick waist was already empty; a detective was tagging the gun. Curly awakened suddenly, colored, and opened his mouth in anger. Then he shrugged and handed over his slim revolver. Neither Grant nor his son, it soon appeared, had a second weapon in his clothes. Then Kit Horne—
Ellery said: “No.”
The old man cocked an inquisitive eye at him. Ellery jerked his thumb slightly toward the girl and shook his head. The Inspector stared, then shrugged.
“Uh — you, don’t bother Miss Horne now. We’ll attend to her later.”
The two detectives nodded and marched off across the arena. Kit Horne did not move; she had not heard a word, but continued to study the zigzag design of the blanket in an expressionless absorption that was horrible.
The Inspector sighed and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Grant!” he said. The old showman turned his head with precision. “You and your son — get Miss Horne off to the side there, will you? This isn’t going to be pleasant.”
Grant drew a deep sobbing breath, his eyes fiery red, and touched Kit’s pale bare arm. “Kit,” he muttered. “Kit.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Kit. Come off here a minute, Kit.”
She looked down again at the blanket.
Grant nudged his son. Curly rubbed his eyes for an instant, wearily, and then they lifted the girl bodily and swung her around. Terror gleamed there, the impulse to cry out; it drained swiftly away and she went limp. They half-carried her across the arena.
The Inspector sighed. “Takes it hard, doesn’t she? Well, El, let’s get to work. I want a long look-see at that body.”
He motioned to several detectives, and they came forward to form a solid wall of official flesh around the corpse. Ellery stood within the ring, and Inspector. Queen. The Inspector braced his spare little shoulders, took a last stimulative pinch of snuff, and then squatted on the tanbark. He removed the blanket with steady fingers.
There was something ironic in that dusty, bloody, once gorgeous costume. The dead man was dressed in black, a shiny romantic black. But the gloss of romance had been destroyed by Horne’s descent to mortal earth, and it was now the rusty black of death. On his twisted, queerly dispersed legs were high-heeled boots of black leather which came well up to his knees, adorned with fancy stitching. Silvery spurs protruded from the boot-heels of the quiet feet. His tucked-in trousers were of black corduroy. Although his bandana was black, his shirt was of pure white sateen — a startling contrast. The shirt-sleeves were drawn in above the elbows and gripped tightly by black garters, while on his wrists he wore a pair of exquisitely fashioned black leather cuffs, embroidered in white stitching and studded with small silver ornaments, the much-coveted conchas of the cowboy-on-parade. Around his waist there was a snug-fitting black trouser belt; and swathing his torso and hips an ornate pistol belt, quite wide and looped for the insertion of cartridges. There were two holsters of beautiful black leather, one resting on the thigh below each hip. And both were empty.
These were the routine items to be duly noted. The Queens looked at each other, and then returned their attention to the body in a search for more interesting details.
Horne’s outfit, so resplendent and brave, had been torn and dirtied by the steel-shod hooves of the horses. Rents in the white shirt revealed gashed hoof-wounds on the skin beneath. Neat, small, clean as a marker, there was a bullethole in the left side, a trench which obviously had ploughed trough the heart. It had bled remarkably little, that wound; the satin edges of the hole were merely stuck to the skin beneath by pasty gore. The graunt old face was taut in death; the white head seemed curiously sunken on one side, behind the ear; and they noted with a sudden repulsion that some horse’s wildly flying hoof had kicked the entire side of the man’s head in. But the features were quite unmarked, except for dust and splatters of blood. The body lay in an impossible position — impossible, that is to say, for a living creature; it was evident that bones had been broken by the crushing weight of the trampling beasts.
Ellery, a little pale, straightened up and looked around. He lit a cigaret with slightly trembling fingers.
“Good thorough job,” muttered the Inspector.
“I find it difficult,” murmured Ellery, “to be anything but religious at the present moment.”
“Hey? What’s that?”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” cried Ellery. “I’ve never become accustomed to these bloody exhibits... Dad, do you believe in miracles?”
“What the devil you talkin’ about?” said the old man. He began to unbuckle from Horne’s body the trouser belt, which was clasped snugly about the waist at the first hole; and then he struggled to detach the heavy pistol belt.
Ellery pointed to the dead face. “Miracle the first. His face wasn’t touched, although those terrible hooves pounded all about him.”
“What of it?”
“Oh, God!” groaned Ellery. “What of it? the man says. Nothing of it. That’s exactly the point! If there was anything of it, it wouldn’t be a miracle, would it?”
The Inspector disdained to reply to such obvious nonsense.
“Miracle the second.” And Ellery blew smoke jerkily. “Look at his right hand.”
The old man obediently, if somewhat wearily, complied. The right arm seemed to be broken in two places; but the right hand was healthily brown, and there was not a scratch on it. Gripped in the tight clutch of the fingers was the long-barreled revolver they had seen Horne flourish only a few moments before.
“Well?”
“That’s not even a miracle; it’s downright act of Providence. He fell, he was probably dead before he struck the ground, forty-one horses stepped all over him — and, by heaven, his hand doesn’t drop the gun!”
The Inspector nursed his lower lip. He looked bewildered. “Well, but what of it? You don’t think there’s something—”
“No, no,” said Ellery impatiently. “There can’t be anything human about the causes of these phenomena. There’s a surfeit of eye-witnesses for that. No, that’s why I call these things miracles; they were accomplished by no human agency. Hence divine. Hence something to get a headache over... Oh, hell, I’m going potty. Where’s his Stetson?”