Page:Short Grass (1926).pdf/250

 land began to rise in the swells that became broken country near the river, but it was considerable distance to the first rise big enough to hide a horse. The animal had not come that way, Dunham was certain, but where it had gone was a puzzle.

Dunham was not thinking very clearly just then, his faculties being in a state of readjustment after the pulling strain of the fight. He was hazy and dizzy, a heavy numbness blunting his reasoning powers, which lumbered around like a clumsy driver trying to back a wagon into a barn door. He went back to the barn to see if the horse might have dodged into a stall and passed his notice, a throbbing in his temples, a sinking dull feeling of melancholy bearing down on him like a sodden load.

It was a terrible thing to have to kill a man, even a vicious, mean-grained villain who was out to have your life. It pulled down on a man's heart; it saddened him, it made the sun smoky and the day obscure.

After another fruitless search of the barn, Bill ranged along the back shanties, thinking the fool creature might have run into an open door somewhere. No sign of him there, nothing standing open to invite a vagrant horse. Bill went up one side of town and down the other, his trouble increasing at every step. He skirmished among the outlying scattered small houses, inquiring of frowsled women who appeared in the doors, or of sluggardly men who hoed and weeded in anemic small gardens, or stripped lean cows in dooryard lots.

Nobody had seen a horse, but they all picked up with lively interest when they recognized the notorious Bill