He found a jug and filled it. Then he kicked off his chaps and located a pair of snowshoes. It was as easy goin’ afoot as it was a-horseback. He slung the jug about his shoulder with a bit of rope. Then he took his carbine and fitted it into a worn buckskin sheath.
“Whisky. Ca’tridges. All set.” Then he remembered the money in the gunnysack. “Whisky’s takin’ holt.” He hid the money in the hay. Then, shuffling along on his webs, he crossed the river to Pete Peralta’s place.
II
Even before he rapped on the door, Sam Graybull sensed that something was wrong at the home of Pete Peralta. Horses in the hay corral, nibbling from the snow capped stack. Gate down. No tracks around. Cattle, gaunt flanked and hollow eyed, bawling for water in the lower pasture. Woodpile buried in the snow. Yet there was smoke coming from the chimney. A light inside, against the coming dusk.
“Come in!” Was that the voice of Pete Peralta? Sam could not see through the window. Frost had made the panes opaque.
Cautiously Sam Graybull opened the door. His jug and carbine laid aside, he held his Colt in his hand, the hammer thumbed back. He kicked the door open.
For a moment Sam Graybull stood there, half crouched, ready. Then he straightened. The gun hammer lowered gently and the weapon went back into its holster.
For propped up on a bunk beside the stove, one leg in rude splints, sat Pete Peralta. A hollow eyed, gaunt cheeked, unshaven Pete.
“Sam! Sam Graybull!” His voice was like the hoarse call of a crow. But there was a prayer in its welcome, as he voiced the name of the killer.
From the bedroom beyond came a broken, moaning sob. A woman’s sob. A woman half delirious with pain.