"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 brass shell. 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?"