Free Devil's Manhunt (Stories from the Golden Age) by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

night he killed Sammy Walker? By God, his eyes! He’s death-hungry, I tell you. He’d rather hunt down a man for the kill than eat. I swear he would. I ain’t runnin’ out without makin’ sure he gets at least some of his share.”
    “You’re a fool!” roared Big George.
    “Hell, that ain’t no secret,” said Mike. “I ain’t afraid of Harmon. Pass me the bottle. He’s a hog, wantin’ half. Who’s afraid of Harmon?”
    “I am,” said Bill. “He’s kill-crazy. You think it’s just the good idea of it that made him figure out a man to hunt. He loves it. The idea is loony. I said many a time if the hoss stumbled, there’d be a man tied up and pinned down. Harmon likes to hunt. I’m fer splittin’ like he wants and gettin’ more.”
    “No more in this country,” said Big George. “I’m through with it. Too condemned dangerous. We don’t need Harmon. We got thirty thousand dollars last night. Fifteen won’t split far. I ain’t afraid of Harmon. Drink up.”
    “I’m scared,” said Eddy. “It’s like Oofty says. We got Pete’s share now. Let’s be square with Harmon. Harmon’s squirrely in the skull about huntin’ men. That ain’t no lie about why he thunk up this false trail. He told me once, ‘Eddy, you ever git hungry?’ And I said, ‘Hell, yes.’ ‘You know how it kind of gnaws you?’ he says. ‘Sure,’ I says, with no idea what he was talkin’ about. ‘That’s the way it is with me sometimes,’ he says. ‘Eat,’ I says, bein’ practical. ‘I ain’t talkin’ about food, Eddy,’ he says. Harmon made us turn that young puncher loose just so he could have the fun of killin’ him. Wasn’t no other sense to it.”
    “Well, let him have that for his pay,” said Big George.
    “That’s all right for you that can throw lead like you—You hear something?” Oofty got up.
    Zeke had made no sound. But one of the staked horses had overturned a wash pan some gold miner had left in the creek.
    Big George came outside with his gun cocked, swiftly sidestepped from the light of the door and stood still, listening. The horse overturned the pan again and Big George uncocked his gun and went in.
    “Give me a drink,” he said, kicking the door shut.
    Stepping out from the shadow of the wall, Zeke began to breathe again. He moved to get around back of the building and stumbled on some riding equipment. The noise passed without notice from within and Zeke was about to move on when his shin struck the stock of a rifle still in its boot . It was a Winchester.
    Some of Zeke’s strength came back. He drew the rifle forth and fingered it for its load. The magazine was full and ten extra cartridges were in loops on the side of the boot.
    He did not know immediately what he would do with it. Coldblooded murder was not in his line. And yet . . .
    They continued their drinking in the hut and began to wrangle once more about the split. Big George was so heated that he offered to pay Oofty and Eddy their shares but they would not be a party to defection. It would cause disaster to fall on them too certainly. Big George then offered them the larger part of the cut and they, drunker, became abusive.
    Zeke did not know who struck the first blow. There was a crash and the light went out and then a man came stumbling outside swearing while furniture broke within. A moment later Zeke had made up his mind. He stepped to the door and fired blindly into the tumult. There was a scream. Zeke threw himself along the base of the house.
    Three more shots sounded and Big George, raving and cursing, came outside, shooting at anything which moved.
    Two shots came from the door and Big George dropped to one knee and shot at the flame. Oofty folded up and began to cough, dry and hard. Somebody was running away in the darkness and Big George lurched after him.
    “Come back with that pouch!” shouted Big George.
    A shot came back at him and Big George returned it and kept on going. The sound of a scuffle came