Borden Chantry Read Online Free PDF Page B

had solid, well-made hands.
    No marks on his face. The fight, if there had been a fight, had been a one-sided affair.
    He unstrapped the dead man’s gun, went through his pockets again…Nothing.
    The buckskin jacket was well-made…Indian-made, and Cheyenne by the style. Now the Cheyenne were a Plains people although they were found sometimes far down into Texas and over against the Rockies in Colorado. The jacket was nicely kept but was not new, which gave Chantry the feeling this man had lived or traveled in Cheyenne country and probably was friendly with them. Otherwise to get a jacket like this he’d have had to trade a pony at least, or a good rifle.
    The Cheyenne jacket and the spurs…well, that was a hint. This rider probably had been in the Rocky Mountain country of Colorado or northern New Mexico or both…Two to three days ride from here…Maybe longer, depending on his horse and his ambition.
    â€œBig Injun,” Chantry suggested, “you make him a coffin…All right?”
    â€œBlanket good enough.” Big Injun was abrupt. “Worms eat him, anyway.”
    â€œI want a coffin for him. Will you make it or do I hire somebody else?”
    â€œOne dollar?”
    â€œAll right.”
    Everything with Big Injun was one dollar. Didn’t he know what twenty-five cents was? Or was he smart enough not to learn?
    Reardon had said the dead man had not had more than one drink, and had left immediately. So he had not gambled.
    Street by street Chantry walked the town, checking every stable and corral. No sorrel horse with three white stockings…no strange horse of any kind. The last stable he checked was Johnny McCoy’s.
    Billy McCoy was standing in the yard spinning a rope, trying to make a circle he could jump in and out of, but not having much luck.
    â€œHowdy, Marshal! You still huntin’ after that dead man’s horse?”
    â€œSure am. You recall what brand he wore?”
    Billy stopped spinning his rope and scowled, thoughtfully. “No, sir. I surely don’t. Guess I didn’t even see it.”
    Chantry looked at Billy again. A western man or boy just naturally looks at brands…he
always
looks at them. Could Billy be lying? And if so, why?
    â€œMind if I look in your barn? I’m checking everyone.”
    â€œGo ahead. There’s no horses in there. Ours are in the corral.”
    The small barn was shadowed and still. There was no horse there, only a few odds and ends of old harness, a few coils of rope, some old, worn-down boots, long unused, and the usual tools.
    There was some manure at one of the stalls, and Chantry paused, glancing at it again.
    Johnny McCoy kept his barn clean…or Billy did. About once a week it was cleaned out and fresh straw was scattered on the dirt floor. There was manure at only one of the makeshift stalls, but what made Borden Chantry take that second look was the position of it. Either that manure had been dropped by a big horse or one that had pulled back to the end of its tether before dropping it.
    Taking off his hat Chantry wiped the sweatband. It had become a habit when he was thinking…if what he was doing could be called thinking, he reflected irritably.
    Looking carefully around, he checked everything, and everything seemed to be right. Yet the manure worried him. There might have been a lot of reasons for its position that were perfectly natural, but it also might have been left by a tall, long-barreled horse…say one that was seventeen hands high.
    Opening the door a little wider for more light he walked back to the stall and studied it. At a rough place in the boards on the right-hand side he found a few sorrel hairs. Yet…it meant nothing. There might have been a dozen sorrel horses in that stall at one time or another.
    He started for the door when something caught his eye. Among the several ropes hung from nails…three on one nail in one place…was one…He