Milo Talon by Louis L’Amour

come very quickly on the death of Nathan Albro. Just how much time had transpired between the two? Maybe Albro’s fall from the horse had been contrived? Had he been murdered and then the safe opened?
    At daybreak I was in the saddle and riding. The letters and notebook I brought with me, tucked away in my saddlebags.
    It took me an hour to arrive at the place where Pablo was holding the horses and it appeared to be a fresh camp. Two dogs ran out barking furiously as I approached, but there was no sign of the Mexican.
    Pulling up about a hundred feet away from thesheep-wagon he was using for a camp, I called out. There was no reply but my horse suddenly turned his head and, glancing to my left, I saw Pablo rising from a buffalo wallow.
    He walked toward me, a Winchester in the hollow of his arm. “Come on in,
amigo,”
he said, smiling. “A man can’t be too careful.”
    When we were seated beside the wagon where his fire burned, I asked him, “Had any trouble?”
    “Not yet,” he said, “and you?”
    “No trouble … yet, but it’s coming.”
    “Here, too.”
    “I came out to have a look around. Did you get much rain out here?”
    “Very little. It passed off to the west of us. We had only a sprinkle.”
    “So there may be tracks?”
    He glanced at me. “I think. Maybe. What do you look for?”
    “The man who screamed in the night. If there’s a body I’d like to find it. If there’s not, I’d like to find where it happened. There might be something, some little thing—”
    “Of course.”
    “Pablo?” I hesitated, then went on. “Somewhere in these hills there is a man … he probably lives alone. I’d guess he has been here ten years, perhaps more than that. He might have a girl living there, like a daughter or friend.”
    Pablo squatted on his haunches and rolled a cigarette. “There are not many who have been here so long. This was very wild. Many Apaches, others. In allthe mountains there are not more than six or seven men who have been here so long.”
    He reached into the fire for a twig to light his cigarette. “This man,” he asked, “would he be in trouble?”
    “Not from me. Not from the law. The others, if they have not found him, they will.”
    “These men … they had to do with he who screamed?”
    “I think so.”
    “Maybe so. Maybe there is such a man. I must think.”
    Drinking the last of my coffee, I got up. “You think. I’ll take a ride yonder. How far would you guess?”
    He shrugged. “It was a clear, cold night. Maybe a quarter of a mile … a half mile at the limit. I think closer.” He pointed. “I have moved my camp, but not far. It would be somewhere over there.”
    As I tightened the cinch, I looked across the saddle at the prairie, taking my time and scanning it with care. Nothing moved out there, simply nothing at all. I glanced southward but could not see the water-tank where the private car had stood. That was another place I must visit.
    “Adios, amigo,”
I said. “I’ll come back by, if possible.”
    “Cuidado,”
he said, “I think there’s something out there. Or somebody.”
    The horse I rode had a shambling trot that ate up distance. As we moved I kept a careful eye on the prairie. The very flatness of it had a way of making one careless, which was dangerous, as it was not as flat as it appeared. Here and there were long shallow places,and coming up to one of them I found the tracks of a horse.
    Measuring the length of the stride with my eyes. I could guess at the size of the horse, and I noticed he had been ridden toward Pablo’s horse camp; yet it was not Pablo’s horse unless he had ridden one of those he was holding.
    Backtracking the horse for a short distance, I found his tracks had come from the northeast. Standing in the stirrups, I looked off that way but could see nothing. Turning away from that trail, I began to cast about for the tracks of the running man. It was unlikely any would be left but it was possible.
    The air