Free Lonely On the Mountain (1980) by Louis - Sackett's 19 L'amour

stillness, the sound of the woods when they are alone.
    His horse, satisfied at last, lifted his dripping muzzle from the cool water, looking about, ears pricked. A drop or two of water fell from his lips. Then, of his own volition, he started on.
    Orrin turned his mount suddenly and walked him downstream in the water, then went out on the bank and wove a careful way through a clump of trees, pausing before emerging into the sunlight.
    He could see the cart afar off, perhaps a half mile. Suddenly, his horse's head lifted sharply, ears pricked. Orrin shucked his rifle and looked carefully about. Then he saw them.
    Two men hunkered down, watching the cart. They were a good twenty yards off, and it was not the Stampers. These were strangers. One wore a black coat, the other a buckskin hunting jacket. Both had rifles.
    Orrin stroked the horse's neck, speaking quietly to him, watching. The last thing he wanted now was to precipitate trouble, and what he needed most was information.
    One of them started to lift his rifle, and Orrin slid his from the scabbard, but the other man put a hand on the other man's rifle and pushed it down.
    What he said, Orrin did not know, but they both withdrew into the brush. He waited, listening. After a short interval, he heard a distant sound of horse's hoofs, then silence. He rode back to the cart.
    Kyle Gavin rode to meet him. "See anything?" "There's been somebody around. Travelers, most likely." How far could he trust Gavin? After all, he knew nothing about the man, and somebody had unloaded his rifle, which could have gotten him killed.
    Had that somebody been expecting an attack?
    Perhaps by the two men? Was it his absence from the cart that caused the men to withdraw? Perhaps it was he they wished to kill, and if he was not present--his Toward sundown, the wind began to pick up again. He scouted on ahead, watching for tracks, using cover. They crossed the Wild Rice, skirted a small settlement, and camped near the crest of a hill away from the river, to be at least partly free from mosquitoes.
    Before daybreak, they moved on and by noon reached Georgetown.
    "The International? She's tied to the bank about twenty mile downstream," a man informed them.
    "Water's too low here an' there. Wasn't much of a melt this year, so water's low." The man peered at Orrin. "Name wouldn't be Sackett, would it? There was a feller around askin' after you. Least you come up to what he described. The way he made it out, you was a mighty mean man." "Me?" Orrin widened his eyes. "I'm a reasonably mild man. Just a tall boy from Tennessee, that's all!" "Tennessee? Ain't that where they make the good corn liquor? Folks tell me it's the finest whiskey in the world if it's aged proper." "Kentucky, Tennessee, the Carolinas, they all have good corn whiskey, but as to age, I had a friend down in the Dark Corner who made first-rate whiskey, but he didn't hold much with aging. He said he kept some of it a full week and couldn't see any difference!" There was a pause, and Orrin asked, "That man who was asking after me? Is he still around?" "Ain't seen him in a couple of days. A big, tall man with a buckskin huntin' jacket." "If you see him again," Orrin said mildly, "just tell him Sackett's in town, and if he's got any business with him, to hurry it up because Sackett can't afford to waste around waitin' for him." "Mister, if I ain't mistaken, that man had killin' on his mind. Least that was the way it sounded." "Of course. You tell him it's all right now.
    The frost is out of the ground." "Frost? What's that got to do with it?" Orrin smiled pleasantly. "Don't you see? It would be hard to dig a grave for him if the ground were still frozen, but we've had mild weather, and I reckon the digging would be right easy!"

    Chapter IX
    A tall man in a buckskin jacket? Could he have been one of the two men who were watching the cart?
    Georgetown was little more than a cluster of shacks and log houses close to the river. Orrin Sackett