Brit, he reasoned, could not have known before he started that his
rough-lock had been tampered with, else he would have fixed it. Neither
was Brit the man to forget the brake on his load. If Brit lived, he
might talk as much as he pleased, but he could never prove that his
accident had been deliberately staged with murderous intent.
Lone lifted his head and looked away across the empty miles of sageland
to the quiet blue of the mountains beyond. Peace--the peace of
untroubled wilderness--brooded over the land. Far in the distance,
against the rim of rugged hills, was an irregular splotch of brown which
was the headquarters of the Sawtooth. Lone turned his wrist to the
right, and John Doe, obeying the rein signal, left the trail and began
picking his way stiff-legged down the steep slope of the ridge, heading
directly toward the home ranch.
John Doe was streaked with sweat and his flanks were palpitating with
fatigue when Lone rode up to the corral and dismounted. Pop Bridgers saw
him and came bow-legging eagerly forward with gossip titillating on his
meddlesome tongue, but Lone stalked by him with only a surly nod.
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