Free Chancy (1968) by Louis L'amour

Rad, and he needed no explanation. But Corbin wanted to know about the shooting, so I told him.
    "Smart," he said, "you comin' up on him like that."
    "It was pure accident," I said, "and he didn't see me until I called out to him."
    He gave me a wry look. "I've seen those accidents before. They only happen with a man who's careful."
    We buried them on the hillside in shallow graves, and marked both graves with crosses. I said a few words over them, the murderer and the murdered, and then we rode back to our cattle, knowing trouble was coming upon us. There was a sadness in me for old Harvey Bowers, and for Gates as well.
    They had not liked me, nor had I cared for them, but we had shared some work together, some days and nights of trouble; and I knew something of their problems and they knew something of mine. They were good men, but worn by years and trouble--there are many such. All the good men who work hard and try to save do not end up with wealth or the good things of this world. I imagine that Noah Gates and Harvey Bowers had done much in their own way to open the way west. They had pioneered where Indians roamed, and where there was no law but what they could provide for themselves. And now they would lie in graves soon forgotten, their trails no longer marked; their few relatives would wait, and wait, and then gradually would cease to wonder about them. It is not only those who have put down foundations who have built upon the land, for such men as Noah Gates had given of blood and sweat and added their flesh to the soil.
    We got back to the herd and moved westward. The cattle grazed as they went along, pausing for a bite here, a bite there. The coolness passed and the day grew warm. Restlessly, I watched the country around.
    Kelsey and Miller would begin wondering what had become of Rad. It would be only a matter of hours until they started hunting him, and they would surely come upon the graves. Rad's was marked with his name, as best we could scratch it on with a knife point. Somebody would have been there to bury them, and Andy Miller would want to know who it had been.
    We drove into a stream and followed it up for half a mile, with Jim or me scouting ahead to be sure there was no quicksand. We drove out, dragged brush over our trail for another half-mile or so, and then went into another stream. The streams were all shallow around here, it seemed, and neither of these had been as much as knee-deep. When we came out of the water we drove north. The Saline River was behind us, the South Branch not far ahead to the north.
    Again we turned west, and we managed thirty miles in the next two days. By that time our horses were worn down and frazzled, and were badly needing rest.
    "Any ranches west of here?" I asked Jim.
    "None I know of."
    He rode in silence for a few minutes and then he said, "Used to be a herd of wild stuff running between here and the Elkhorn, but mostly south of there. In the old days there were several hundred head, but last time I saw them there were only two bunches of about twenty to thirty head might be others further west."
    "You think we could round up a few?"
    "It's worth trying," he said. "And we'll need the horses."
    Tom Hacker was the best cook in the outfit, and gradually he took over the job. Each of us kept his eyes open so we could have some change in diet; sometimes it would be an antelope haunch, a few wild turkeys, or a sage hen.
    It was about midafternoon when we came to a good-sized stream running about knee-deep, and we followed it northeast for a mile and a half before coming out on the bank. It was a good spot to camp, with a few cottonwoods, many willows, and some brush. The grass was good, for this was far from any trail where cattle had been driven. The route west through Nebraska lay not far to the north, but nobody traveled through the land where we rode.
    Toward nightfall Handy Corbin got two sage hens. He saw them, palmed his six-gun, and fired the two shots with one