"I could swear in court
that Fred's left foot was twisted--that's damn funny, Lone. I don't see
men ride backwards, much."
Lone turned on him and struck the stirrup from his hand. "I think you
better forget it," he said fiercely. "He's dead--it can't help him any
to----" He stopped and pulled himself together. "Swan, you take a fool's
advice and don't tell anybody else about feeling words talk in your
head. They'll have you in the bug-house at Blackfoot, sure as you live."
He looked at the saddle, hesitated, looked again at Swan, who was
watching him. "That blood most likely got there when Fred was packing a
deer in from the hills. And marks on them old oxbow stirrups don't mean
a damn thing but the need of a new pair, maybe." He forced a laugh and
stepped outside the shed. "Just shows you, Swan, that imagination and
being alone all the time can raise Cain with a fellow. You want to watch
yourself."
Swan followed him out, closing the door carefully behind him. "By golly,
I'm watching out now," he assented thoughtfully. "You don't tell
anybody, Lone."
"No, I won't tell anybody--and I'd advise you not to," Lone repeated
grimly.
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