"But that's different, Pete. No one saw Gary shoot Annersley. It was night. Annersley was killed in his cabin—by a shot through the window. Anybody might have fired that shot. Why, you were there yourself—and you can't prove who done it."
"I can't, eh? Well, between you and me, Jim, I know. One of Gary's own men said that night when they were leavin' the cabin, 'It must 'a' been Steve that drilled the ole man because Steve was the only puncher who knowed where the window was and fired into it.'"
"I didn't know that. So you aim to even up, eh?"
"Nope. I jest aim to be ready to even up."
Bailey strode back to his horse. "I'm goin' up in the hills and look for a deer. Want to take a little pasear with me?"
"Suits me, Jim."
"Come on, then."
They mounted and rode side by side across the noon mesa.
The ponies stepped briskly. The air was like a song. Far away the blue hills invited exploration of their timbered and mysterious silences.
"Makes a fella feel like forgettin' everything and everybody—but jest this," said Pete, gesturing toward the ranges.