They rushed from the coop and spread
over the yard, scratching and clucking happily. Pete was surprised
that the chickens should go about their business so casually. They did
not seem to care that his pop had been killed.
He was back to the cabin before he realized what he was doing. From
the doorway he saw that still form shrouded in the familiar old gray
blanket. Something urged him to lift a corner of the blanket and
look--something stronger held him back. He tip-toed to the kitchen and
began building a fire. "Pop would be gettin' breakfast," he whispered.
Pete fried bacon and made coffee. He ate hurriedly, occasionally
turning his head to glance at that still figure beneath the blanket.
Then he washed the dishes and put them carefully away, as his pop would
have done. That helped to occupy his mind, but his most difficult task
was still before him. He dared not stay in the cabin--and yet he felt
that he was a coward if he should leave. Paradoxically he reasoned
that if his pop were alive, he would know what to do. Pete knew of
only one thing to do--and that was to go to Concho and tell the sheriff
what had happened.
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