Free Bendigo Shafter (1979) by Louis L'amour Page A

bad situation. Ethan was worse off than I was, for he was in the bottom near the marsh. There was good hiding down there but no way he could escape without crossing a hundred yards of white snow where he'd be as easy to see as a red shirt at a Quaker meeting.
    My position wasn't bad. I was right at the tapering off point of the pines that came down off the ridge toward the swamp. There was some scattered brush, snow-covered rocks, and a few deadfalls. Our trouble was we had no idea how many we were facing. The man I'd shot seemed to be dead. He lay sprawled on the slope back of Ethan. His hat had rolled down the slope a little, and he was lying all sprawled out. It gave me a turn to see him there because I wanted no dead men on my back trail.
    It was cold. We hadn't waited more than a few minutes before I realized this could get sort of tiresome. My fingers on that rifle began to get stiff with cold, and I dearly wished to move.
    We'd killed one, and there might only have been two. We might be close by their camp without knowing it, and if so we'd be surrounded in no time. It was time to move.
    Picking a spot in the thicker stand of trees, I dug in my toes and took off with a lunge.
    Nothing happened.
    No shot, no movement that I could see. From my safer position I scanned the country around, watching trees, birds playing in the brush, and the like. After a minute I glanced over at the dead man.
    His rifle was still gripped in his right hand, and I could see a lump on the back of his coat near the side that might be a pistol butt.
    The others, if there had been others, were gone. Walking out, I took the rifle from his hand and stripped off his pistol belt and gun. The rifle was a new Henry .44, and they were a scarce thing. Cain and I, we had two of the first ones. Cain had worked in a plant in New Haven where they were made, only returning to Illinois when he started westward.
    The pistol was an old cap-and-ball, much worn. His belt held thirty rounds of cartridges for the rifle.
    Ethan came up to meet me, carrying his meat. I loaded up, and we led off into the trees, backtracking the man who shot at me. We found his horse tied to a tree with a blanket roll behind the saddle, two well-packed saddlebags, and a heavy coat. There were a couple of letters in the pocket addressed to Win Pollard, Fort Bridger, Dakota Territory.
    He was among them who attacked us at the town, Ethan said. I recognize that horse. Had one like him, one time.
    We loaded our meat on the horse and started back to our town. We stripped the saddle from the horse and hung it on a peg in the shed back of Cain's place. The folks were glad to see the fresh meat.
    Webb went out next day and killed a deer. He rode by our kill, and there were fresh bear tracks, so the old bear had evidently found enough to keep him through until spring.
    Webb told us about it when he got back. Seen that body, he commented. Didn't you say you found some letters?
    I showed them to him, and he glanced at the signature. Well, you got you some trouble, boy.
    What's that mean?
    Win Pollard. You killed him. I figured I knew that face. Win's got him a family. He's got some brothers and a mighty mean lot they are. When word gets to them, they'll come a-hunting.
    He bought trouble, Ethan said. We were just cutting up meat when they came on us.
    It'll make them no mind, Webb said. Those Pollards are vengeful boys.
    For two weeks then we had a quiet time, with much hunting and some evenings of reading and talking. Taking the oxen so's to rest the horses, I went out and snaked a couple of big deadfalls out of the woods, then took a wagon up to the edge of the trees and loaded it with firewood.
    Neely Stuart was out and killed an antelope. He said he saw some horse tracks over on Pine Creek, west of us. Four riders, he said.
    When I came back to Cain's house for supper that day, Mae Stuart was there, helping Lorna get food on the table. She had her hair up and looked mighty pretty, swishing her