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These he pulled on over his shoes, tied them around his ankles and went on, still keeping close under the hill. He reached the place where Fred Thurman lay, stood well away from the body and studied every detail closely. Then, stepping carefully on trampled brush and rocks, he approached and cautiously lifted Lone's coat.
Lone stiffened in his chair, felt under his coat, and then got up with some deliberation and looked out of the window before he went to the door. All this was a matter of habit, bred of Lone's youth in the feud country, and had nothing whatever to do with his conscience. "Hello!" he called, standing in the doorway and grinning a welcome to Swan, who stood with one arm resting on the board gate.
Lone stared at him. "Where's your authority, Swan?" Swan lifted the rifle to a comfortable, firing position, the muzzle pointing straight at Lone's chest. With his left hand he turned back his coat and disclosed a badge pinned to the lining. "I'm a United States Marshal, that's all; a government hunter," he stated. "I'm hot on the trail of coyotes all kinds.
"Mind your own business and let other folks do the same," had been the family slogan in Lone's home. There had been nothing in Lone's later life to convince him that minding his own business was not a very good habit. It had grown to be second nature, and it had made him a good man for the Sawtooth Cattle Company to have on its pay roll.
Then, chiefly because Lone's impatience finally influenced him, he set out to see where Al had gone. According to Jack, Al had gone to the corral.
Lone stared at him. "Where's your authority, Swan?" Swan lifted the rifle to a comfortable, firing position, the muzzle pointing straight at Lone's chest. With his left hand he turned back his coat and disclosed a badge pinned to the lining. "I'm a United States Marshal, that's all; a government hunter," he stated. "I'm hot on the trail of coyotes all kinds.
Swan, however, was not troubling himself over what Lone would think, or even what Warfield was thinking. Contrary to Lone's idea of him, Swan was tired, and he was thinking a great deal about Lorraine, and very little about Al Woodruff, except as Al was concerned with Lorraine's welfare. Swan had made a mistake, and he was humiliated over his blunder.
"Anybody would be ashamed to shoot at a mark so large as I am. I'd say they're poor shooters." And he added irrelevantly, as he held up a grayish pelt, "I got that coyote I been chasing for two weeks. He was sure smart. He had me guessing. But I made him guess some, maybe. He guessed wrong this time." Lone's eyes narrowed while he looked Swan over. "You must have been out all night," he said.
"It isn't he isn't " she began, and turned upon Swan, who was beside the bunk, looking down at Frank's upturned face. "Swan, if it's serious enough for a doctor, can't you send another thought message to your mother?" she asked. "He looks oh, Lone! He isn't dead, is he?" Swan turned his head and stared down at her, and from her face his glance went sharply to Lone's downcast face.
Al had kept himself so successfully in the background while Lone's peculiar actions had held his attention, that Swan had never considered Al Woodruff as the killer. Now he blamed himself for Frank's death. He had been watching Lone, had been baffled by Lone's consistent kindness toward the Quirt, by the force of his personality which held none of the elements of cold-blooded murder.
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