The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 by Louis L’Amour Page A

as this shoot another in the back? The evidence against him was plain enough, or seemed plain enough.
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    Yet beyond the respect there was something else, for it was no longer simply a matter of justice to be done, but a personal thing. Each of them felt in some measure that his reputation was at stake. It had not been enough for Lock to leave an obvious trail, but he must leave markers, the sort to be used for any tenderfoot. There were men in this group who could trail a woodtick through a pine forest.
    â€œWell,” Kimmel said reluctantly and somewhat grimly, “he left us good coffee, anyway!”
    They tried the coffee and agreed. Few things in this world are so comforting and so warming to the heart as hot coffee on a chilly night over a campfire when the day has been long and weary. They drank, and they relaxed. And as they relaxed the seeds of doubt began to sprout and put forth branches of speculation.
    â€œHe could have got more’n one of us today,” Sutter hazarded. “This one is brush wise.”
    â€œI’ll pull that rope on him!” Short stated positively. “No man makes a fool out of me!” But in his voice there was something lacking.
    â€œYou know,” Kesney suggested, “if he knows these hills like he seems to, an’ if he really wanted to lose us, we’d have to burn the stump and sift the ashes before we found him!”
    There was no reply. Hardin drew back and eased the leg of his pants away from the skin, for the cloth had grown too hot for comfort.
    Short tossed a stick from the neat pile into the fire.
    â€œThat mill ain’t so far away,” he suggested, “shall we give her a try?”
    â€œLater.” Hardin leaned back against a log and yawned. “She’s been a hard day.”
    â€œBoth them bullets go in Johnny’s back?”
    The question moved among them like a ghost. Short stirred uneasily, and Kesney looked up and glared around. “Sure they did! Didn’t they, Hardin?”
    â€œSure.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, no. One of them was under his left arm. Right between the ribs. Looked like a heart shot to me. The other one went through near his spine.”
    â€œThe heck with it!” Kesney declared. “No slick, rustlin’ squatter can come into this country and shoot one of our boys! He was shot in the back, an’ I seen both holes. Johnny got that one nigh the spine, an’ he must have turned and tried to draw, then got that bullet through the heart!”
    Nobody had seen it. Neill remembered that, and the thought rankled. Were they doing an injustice? He felt like a traitor at the thought, but secretly he had acquired a strong tinge of respect for the man they followed.
    The fire flickered and the shadows danced a slow, rhythmic quadrille against the dark background of trees. He peeled bark from the log beside him and fed it into the fire. It caught, sparked brightly, and popped once or twice. Hardin leaned over and pushed the coffeepot nearer the coals. Kesney checked the loads in his Winchester.
    â€œHow far to that sawmill, Hardin?”
    â€œAbout six miles, the way we go.”
    â€œLet’s get started.” Short got to his feet and brushed off the sand. “I want to get home. Got my boys buildin’ fence. You either keep a close watch or they are off gal hootin’ over the hills.”
    They tightened their saddle girths, doused the fire, and mounted up. With Hardin in the lead once more, they moved off into the darkness.
    Neill brought up the rear. It was damp and chill among the cliffs and felt like the inside of a cavern. Overhead the stars were very bright. Mary was going to be worried, for he was never home so late. Nor did he like leaving her alone. He wanted to be home, eating a warm supper and going to bed in the old four-poster with the patchwork quilt Mary’s grandmother made, pulled over him. What enthusiasm he had had for the