He noticed and followed the tracks in the sand, reading them easily. He found the Winchester and quickly learned its story, which told him the whole thing. Returning to the body of his friend he sat by it quietly, looking down at it for several minutes, his sombrero in his hand.
"Well, wishing won't do no good," he muttered, dismounting. "I'll take you home, lad, an' see you put down too deep for coyotes to bother you. An' I'll square yore scores or join you trying."
He lifted the body across the withers of his horse and picked up the Colt. Mounting, he rode at a walk towards the bunk house, afire with rage and sorrow.
For the third time Meeker strode to the door of the bunk house and looked out into the darkness, uneasy and anxious. Chick sauntered over to him and leaned against the frame of the door. "They'll show up purty soon, Jim," he remarked.
"Yes. I reckon so—Salem!" the foreman called. "Put their grub where it'll keep warm."
"Aye, aye, sir. I was just thinking I ought to. They're late, ain't they, sir?" he asked. "An' it's dark, too," he added, gratis.
"Why, is it, Salem?" queried Dan, winking at Jack Curtis, but Salem disappeared into the gallery.
"Listen!—I hear 'em!" exclaimed Chick.
"You hear one of 'em," corrected Meeker, turning to the table to finish drinking his coffee. "Hey, Salem! Never mind warming that grub—rustle it in here. One of 'em's here, an' he'll be starved, too."