Free Raw Land by Luke; Short Page B

the bay out to the corral, turned him in, then took his rope off his saddle on the poles.
    Scowling, Will drifted over to the corral. Milt was working out his little chestnut mare from the bunch in the corral that had already been shod. He separated her, spooked her back away from the others, shook out his rope, made his cast, and led her over to his saddle and bridle on the corral poles.
    Will came up and leaned on the corral, the skin of his back and arms a dead white compared to his hands and face. He said idly, “Goin’ to take a look around?”
    Milt looked at him quickly, hotly.
    â€œWhat if I am?” he asked.
    Will shrugged and said nothing, only regarded Milt with puzzled affection.
    Milt swung the saddle on, cinched it up, and then said, “I’m goin’ to town.”
    Immediately Will thought of Mary Norman. “Think you ought to?” he murmured.
    Milt wheeled and stared at him. “Hell, Will, am I a prisoner here?”
    Will shook his head. “If you ain’t in town, then nobody can see you,” he pointed out. “Besides, you’ll hit town about dark. You aim to stay all night?”
    â€œDo you care?” Milt asked hotly.
    Will straightened up. “I don’t care, Milt. I’m thinkin’ of you. But if you want to head for town, go ahead. It’s your risk.”
    â€œThat’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, Will,” Milt said shortly.
    He led the mare out the gate, closed it, swung into the saddle, and slowly lined out for town. His back was straight, cocky, somehow arrogant.
    Will watched him go with a mingled exasperation and foreboding. He didn’t want him to go to Yellow Jacket, and yet he couldn’t tell Milt the reason. For if he did, Milt would laugh and then seek out Mary Norman the first time he was lonely for a woman. It was his way never to think of the risk, to always choose the reckless way, to damn the consequences. It was this in him that Will knew he would have to fight. It was Milt’s neck, yet he was more careless of it than anybody else.
    The appearance of Pinky, lugging a bucket of water from the cookshack, stirred Will to action. He went into the wagon shed, donned his shirt, and, when Pinky appeared, said, “Let’s call it a mornin’, Pinky. I’ve got to go to town.”
    Will’s first impulse was to catch up with Milt and ride in with him. But when he was finished giving Pinky orders for the afternoon’s work, Milt was already out of sight over the mesa’s rim-rock. It came to Will with a feeling of small hurt that Milt had foreseen his coming along, and that he’d ridden ahead on purpose.
    Will didn’t hurry. He never caught sight of Milt on the ride, and he drifted into Yellow Jacket at suppertime. He had supper alone, and afterward strolled down the long street in the dusk, a big, lonely man who nodded to everyone and yet really spoke to nobody.
    At full dark, he drifted into Hal Mohr’s saloon, collected the papers, and took a seat at one of the back tables where he could watch the door.
    By ten o’clock, Will had dropped two dollars in a poker game that bored him, when Milt came in. Milt’s face was sulky, faintly wicked-looking, and the way he came up to the bar, abruptly pushed his hat off his forehead, folded his arms, and let his shoulders sink with deep exhaustion, told Will that Milt’s mood had not left him. Will concentrated on his cards.
    Soon he looked up to see Milt standing over him watching him with smoky, sultry eyes. Milt suddenly grinned then, as if apologizing. Will cashed in his chips, and he and Milt drifted over to the bar.
    They ordered drinks, and then Milt said, “I’m sorry for the raggin’, Will. I’m just edgy.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and third finger and then stared in the bar mirror, grinning at Will.
    â€œForget it,” Will said. He straightened up. “Well, I’m