Then he shuddered, wheeled
his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.
He rode to the Bar D. His men--the regular punchers--were working far
down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.
He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he
had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew
longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing
distance of the firing seized him again--grew more depressing, and he
sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing
over him.
He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.
"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that,"
he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to
the shooting. "Once a man lets on he's afraid, the thing keeps a
workin' on him till he's certain sure he's a coward. Them boys didn't
need me, anyway--they'll get Sanderson."
So he justified his lack of courage, and spent some hours reading. But
at last the strain grew too great, and as the dusk came on he began to
have thoughts of Dal Colton.
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