"Hell!" The ruddy color sank from Andy's face. He had supposed that Gary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses toward the T-Bar-T. "Where's Cotton?" he asked.
"I told him to fan it."
"But, Pete—!"
"I know. They's no use talkin', Andy. I come back to tell you—and to git your rope. Mine's over by Gary."
"What you goin' to do, Pete?"
"Me? Why, I'm goin' to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue. Cotton he seen the shootin'—but that don't do me no good. He'll swear that I pulled first. He'd say 'most anything—he was too scared to know what come off. Gary's hand was on his gun when I let him have it—twict."
Andy noticed then Pete's torn sleeve. "I reckon that's right. Look at that!"
Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve. "Never knowed he shot—it was all done so quick." He seemed to awaken suddenly to the significance of his position. "I'll take your rope and go git Smoke. Then I'm goin' to drift."
"But where?"
"You're my pardner, Andy, but I ain't sayin'. Then you won't have to lie. You'll have to tell Jim—and tell him it was like I said—if Gary come at me, that would be different. I'm leavin' it to you to square me with Jim Bailey." Pete picked up the rope and started toward the spring.