At the end of that time Walworth rejoined the others.
“They’re telling the truth,” he announced glumly.
“I thought so,” the sheriff said. “You know, I don’t know much about these new-fangled things, so us old-timers have to rely on human nature and character, and figuring what a person would do under certain circumstances and—”
“That,” Walworth announced harshly, “is all bosh. The man doesn’t live who can judge guilt or innocence by trusting to the perceptions of his auditory nerves. It’s merely a means by which the old-fashioned officer gave free rein to his prejudices. It’s no more reliable than locating a well by a forked willow stick.”
“Well, well, well,” the sheriff said, “now I’d always put a lot of store by all that, and I’ve seen some mighty good wells—”
Medford interrupted to ask pointedly, “Did you have some reason for this visit, Sheriff?”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “I just came to ask Walworth one question. I’ve been reading somewhere about the identification of hairs. Seems to me like I read you can identify a hair — not only what kind of a hair it is, but you can tell a lot about the age and condition of the person or animal it came from.”
“Yes,” Walworth said shortly. He was definitely not encouraging this cordiality on the part of the sheriff.
“Well, now,” the sheriff went on, “that’s fine, because it occurs to me that you might be able to help me solve this case.”
“I’ll solve it myself,” Walworth said.
“Now, now,” the sheriff cautioned. “No need to get on your high horse like that. I just thought we might sort of work together, since you’re here.”
“I’ve been retained by the district attorney to solve this case,” Walworth said.
“Well, now, that’s fine,” the sheriff beamed, “because I’m employed by the County to do the same thing, so we might just as well sort of work along together.”
“I have my methods, and you have yours.”
“Sure, sure. Now take your methods, for instance. How do you think the murderer got out of that Higbee place without leaving tracks on the plowed ground?”
“I think tracks were there, but they were obliterated by your slipshod methods. I think that Sam Beckett must have walked in the tracks of the murderer, and when you subsequently walked in the tracks of Sam Beckett you managed to obliterate the murderer’s tracks. That’s the only logical explanation.”
The sheriff grinned. “And suppose his tracks were obliterated — the tracks he made going up to the body? Then what? How’d he get out of the place? He was in the middle of a field and soft plowed ground was all around him — just like a man who’s painted himself into the middle of a floor by beginning at the outer edge of the room.”
The sheriff ceased speaking and grinned at Walworth’s evident discomfiture.
“Well, now,” the sheriff went on, “suppose this girl had found a paper that was sort of incriminating to some people, and someone wanted to get that paper, someone that was snooping around the house watching her. She started to run. Well, she was young and trim, and maybe this man felt he couldn’t catch her, running after her; but just suppose he’d already arranged for a means of quick escape — something that required the use of a silk rope with tassels on it — the twisted silk rope that held the drapes over that door, for instance.”
Walworth looked at the sheriff as though doubting the officer’s sanity. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“A horse,” the sheriff said. “That cord was about eight feet long, long enough to tie around a horse’s neck, make a half hitch over his nose — and when the girl ran out of the house with whatever it was the man wanted, he ran out and got on his horse.
“It was dark and he couldn’t see her, but he knew she’d run for the tractor, so he galloped his horse straight for the tractor. The girl could see him ’cause she was looking up, and a man on a horse shows up against the sky, even when it’s cloudy, while a man on a horse, looking down, has a hard time seeing something on the ground at night. But by galloping toward the tractor, the man made the girl think he could see her, and she swerved and screamed, and then the man on the horse did see her.”
“And all this time the man on the tractor didn’t see or hear anything?” Walworth asked skeptically.
The sheriff grinned. “Guess you’ve never plowed on a tractor at night,” he said. “What with the roar of the motor and having to watch the furrows, you don’t see or hear much.”
“Go ahead,” Walworth said curtly.
“Well,” the sheriff went on, “this man caught up with the girl and jumped off. By that time the girl had been running a long way and the man was fresh. He caught her just as she stumbled and fell, right on the edge of the plowed ground. The purse was what he wanted. After he stabbed her, he got the purse. And the horse, being a trained cattle horse, stood there stock-still as long as the rope was dragging on the ground.
The man finished his murder, got back on the horse, and rode in a series of aimless circles around the plowed ground so it wouldn’t look as though a horse was being directed by a rider in a straight line to the fence. But the man got to the fence all right after making a few turns. He rode the horse alongside the fence, slid off on the other side of the fence, untied the silk rope, and turned the horse loose. The horse wandered back around the plowed ground. Because we were all looking for the tracks of a murderer and because a whole field full of horses were galloping around and cutting didoes, nobody paid any attention to the horse tracks in the plowed ground.
“The man that was doing the plowing came on around, and because he was watching the edge of the plowed ground pretty sharp, plowed right past the figure on the ground without seeing it. In fact, he didn’t see it until he’d made a couple more turns and the moon had come up.”
Sheriff Eldon’s audience was listening with rapt attention.
“So I sort of thought,” the sheriff said, “that if you’d take that microscope and examine the pants of this here murderer, you might find where some of the horse’s hairs had worked into the man’s pants, and then if you could prove they were the same hairs from the old bay saddle-horse that John Farnham sold Sam Beckett a while ago, you just might find someone to put that lie detector on.”
Walworth looked at the sheriff blankly.
“You see,” the sheriff went on, “the murderer would have to be somebody that knew how to ride pretty well, and who knew which one of the horses in that field was saddle-broke.”
Farnham got to his feet, “What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Just thought it might be a good plan to take a look at those pants of yours,” the sheriff said, “and then I thought maybe you’d like to take a lie-detector test, seeing we’re going in for some of this new-fangled scientific business.”
“You’re crazy!” Farnham said. “But look at my pants all you damn please.”
“Not those pants,” the sheriff said. “You probably went home and took your pants off and left them to be sent to the cleaner; but you see, John, I read in the paper that your wife had gone away for a long visit, and it occurred to me that if you’re sort of batching around the place, there wouldn’t be anybody to send stuff out to the cleaners, so the pants may still be in your house. You know, it’s a great thing in these country towns to read the newspapers and keep up with—”
Farnham lost his head and rushed the sheriff.