Free Over on the Dry Side by Louis L’Amour Page A

read.”
    â€œHe’p yourself. I looked through a few of ’em but there ain’t much there that makes much sense to me. Books by them Greeks, histories an’ such. Nothin’ that would he’p a man work land.”
    Dawn came with a cool wind off the mountains, a smell of pine and the chill of rocky peaks where some of last year’s snow still lingered from the winter, awaiting the next snow.
    Owen went to the woodpile and took up the ax. For a half hour he worked, cutting wood for the cooking fires. From time to time he paused, leaning on the ax and taking time to study the country. His eyes searched out every canyon, every draw, placing them exactly in his mind.
    Lost Canyon lay just north, a great, timbered gash coming down from the northeast. Only barely visible from where he stood, he had ridden to it on his first scouting of the country. A creek ran along the bottom.…One day he would go down there.
    It was one of the last areas in the States to be settled. Rivera had reached it in 1765, and Escalante had passed through in 1776. Otherwise the vast land had remained unrecorded by any white man, yet men must have ridden through, hunted and prospected here. There was always one curious rider who went a little farther, or passed through going from here to there. Discoverers were only those who called attention to what they’d seen and done.
    When Owen left the woodpile he climbed to the loft and rummaged through the books. The
Odes
of Horace in the original Latin did him no good at all. Clive had been the Latin scholar of the family.
    There was a two-volume edition of the poems of Alfred Tennyson—a contemporary—published in 1842. Chantry had read some of Tennyson, and enjoyed him. The rest could wait. He took up the two Tennyson books and climbed down.
    He opened a book when he reached the last step and looked through it, riffling the pages and glancing at a poem here and there. One page was marked by a torn piece of newspaper. It was “Ulysses.”
    He closed the book and put it down for later reading.
    When he walked outside again, both Kernohan and Doby had gone. The team was gone, as was Doby’s gelding. Owen had started back toward the house when he glimpsed three riders coming down the draw toward the house.
    Chantry took his rifle from inside and placed it beside the door. Suddenly, he saw movement near a bush by the stable. His hand was poised for a draw when a voice called out, “Don’t shoot, Owen!”
    It was Kernohan, hoe in hand, unarmed.
    â€œStay right where you are or get into the barn,” Chantry advised.
    He was watching the riders. He knew that bay. It was a big horse, weighing twelve hundred or more and standing over sixteen hands. It was notoriously fast and had won many races around the country.
    It was Strawn’s horse, and nobody ever rode that horse but Strawn.
    Freka would be with him. Freka was part Finlander, a troublemaker who had lived in a colony of Scandinavians in Utah until they drove him out. He was known to be a good man with a gun and had figured in several pointless killings in the past few years.
    They turned into the yard and drew up when they saw Chantry standing in the door, waiting for them.
    â€œHowdy, Chantry!” Strawn said casually. “It’s been a while.”
    â€œFort Worth, wasn’t it?” Chantry asked.
    Freka was the thin, blond man in the checkered shirt. The third man was heavier, a barrel-chested fellow with a bull neck and a shaved head to whom Chantry couldn’t yet put a name.
    â€œYou boys traveling?” Chantry asked them.
    â€œSort of prospectin’ around. You ever been to the La Platas?”
    â€œTime or two.”
    â€œRough country, but mighty purty. How’s for a drink?”
    â€œWater or coffee? We haven’t any whiskey.”
    â€œCoffee sounds good.” Strawn swung down from his bay, and the others followed. Slowly, they walked toward