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wasn’t a thing I could do. He just slipped away like he was taking a nap. And now you say his wife is dead, also? Terrible, just terrible.”
    â€œCould his wife’s death bring on an apoplexy like you said happened to him?”
    â€œAt his age, it most certainly could have. It also could have been that bump on his head. I just don’t know for sure.”
    â€œBurnside was a damned good gunsmith and a fine fellow. A lot of folks around here are goin’ to miss him,” Cotton said.
    â€œYou suppose he’s got family nearby that we should get ahold of?”
    â€œNever heard him speak of any. I suppose I could go look through his papers. I think I remember him havin’ a desk at the back of the store. Although, I’ll admit, I’d feel strange searchin’ through a man’s personal and private documents.”
    â€œI don’t envy you. But someone has to and I can’t think of anyone better qualified.”
    â€œThanks, Doc. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find somethin’ useful. Oh, and when you get the arrangements made for the burial, we’ll need to get the word out. Burnside had a lot of friends in these parts,” Cotton said, tipping his hat and stepping off the porch. He headed straight for the gun shop.
    When he got there, Jack was standing behind the counter with one hand cupping his chin, deep in thought. He looked up as the bell over the door signaled Cotton’s entrance.
    â€œFind anything of interest, Jack?”
    â€œCan’t say for certain, but it sure is a puzzle. How’s Burnside doin?”
    â€œHe isn’t.”
    â€œYou mean . . .”
    â€œYep. He slipped away without ever regainin’ his senses.”
    â€œThat’s a damned shame. Good man, Burnside.”
    â€œSo show me what’s got you lookin’ so thoughtful.”
    â€œIt’s right there, on the floor by his chair. What d’ya see?”
    â€œLooks like a piece of barrel stock. From the length, I’d say it’s likely for a rifle. So . . . ?”
    â€œLook close. Don’t that dark smudge on it remind you of blood?”
    Cotton turned the section of gun barrel over and perused it more carefully. He held it up to the light.
    â€œDoes at that. Take it down to Doc Winters and see what he says. Ask him if he’s thinks Burnside could have been hit with it.”
    Jack scooted out the door as Cotton gave the handles of the rolltop desk a good yank.
If Burnside kept any personal papers anywhere, they should be in here.
He wasn’t surprised at the pile that lay before him. He rolled the chair over, sat down, and began his search for anything that might suggest a family member somewhere that he could contact. Mostly he found stacks of schematics for every which kind of firearm: revolvers, rifles, shotguns, even one that showed how to disassemble a Gatling gun. There were papers in every drawer, every cubbyhole, even stacked on top.
This is going to take a while
, Cotton thought. He leaned back with a handful of sheets from one stack and started leafing through them, mesmerized by the complexity of the various schematics.
    * * *
    â€œWell, yes, there was some blood on the back of his head. Not much, though. I figured he’d hit his head on the floor when he collapsed. Why are you asking, Jack?”
    â€œAny chance it could have come from a blow with a piece of a gun barrel? Maybe something like this?” Jack held up the piece of steel.
    Doc Winters frowned as he stroked his chin.
    â€œIt . . . is . . . possible, I suppose, and that for sure is a bit of blood. But you’d think there’d be much more blood if Burnside was struck by anything as heavy as this. Of course, he was rather frail, and with the death of his wife weighing heavy on his mind, hmm, well, it might not have taken much to bring him down. Is that what you’re thinking happened?”
    â€œI