Part 32 (1/2)
”Thus ye saw?”
”Thus I saw.”
”Whar did the lead strike?”
”The tree,” Dabb answered dully. ”Hit's buried in the tree.”
There was silence which Barr broke with a soul-desolated cry, ”This day I know shame!”
They were weighted as though by heavy burdens, and Jeff understood why they scourged themselves. By the cowardly action of one of their number, something they could never get back had been taken from all of them.
They must hang their heads because among them walked a man who was not a man. Jeff rubbed salt into their wounds.
”You can all be proud of yourselves.”
It was as though they did not hear. This terrible crime, this heinous sin, had been committed, but they did not want to believe.
Grant said hopefully, ”Maybe 'twar an outlander.”
”'Twar no outlander,” Barr muttered. ”'Twas a hill man.”
Jeff trembled, fired with another idea. If the tree could talk, he had thought, it might tell who shot Johnny Blazer. _The tree could talk!_
”Are you afraid to find out who did it?” he challenged.
Barr glowered at him. ”An' how do we do that!”
”Dig the bullet out of the tree.”
”Pay nao heed to him!” Pete intoned. ”He would but tangle us an' lead us from him.”
”Hold your tongue!” Barr ordered gruffly. ”No man walks safe with one among us who shoots men as he would a varmint! Get the bullet, Dabb!”
Dabb left a second time and Jeff hoped his wildly beating heart could not be heard. To these mountain men killing was right, as long as men met in a fair fight. But it was soul-blackening, the extreme depths of degradation, to kill as Johnny Blazer's killer had, and that killer was about to be known. Only one rifle could have fired the fatal shot, and the hill men would recognize that bullet and know who had fired it. Or would they? Four of the Whitneys present carried thirty caliber rifles and there must be more in the hills. Jeff's hopes alternately rose and waned.
Then Dabb came back and held up the leaden slug so all could see. Four pairs of eyes swung accusingly on Pete. Mushrooming where it had struck Johnny and then the tree, the slug still retained its shape where it had fitted its bra.s.s sh.e.l.l. There could be no mistake; it was fifty caliber.
Sweat broke out on Pete's forehead. ”Hit--Hit--'Twarn't me!”
Barr spat, ”'Twar you!”
”He--he stole pelts out'en my traps!”
”You met him unfair!”
Pete half screamed. ”He had a rifle an' shot afore I did!”
Barr said relentlessly, ”Whar was his rifle?”
”I--I brought it back here!”