Trying his best to ignore the gray blanket, he
picked up all the cartridges he could find, and the two rifles, and
backed from the room. He felt ashamed of the fear that drove him from
the cabin. He did not want his pop to think that he was a coward.
Partners always "stuck," and yet he was running away. "Good-bye, pop,"
he quavered. He choked and sobbed, but no tears came. He turned and
went to look for the horses.
Then he remembered that the corral fence was burned, that there had
been no horses there when he went to let the chickens out. He followed
horse-tracks to the edge of the timber and then turned back. The
horses had been stampeded by the flames and the shooting. Pete knew
that they might be miles from the cabin. He cut across the mesa to the
trail and trudged down toward Concho. His eyes burned and his throat
ached. The rifles grew heavy, but he would not leave them. It was
significant that Pete thought of taking nothing else from the cabin,
neither clothing, food, nor the money that he knew to be in Annersley's
wallet in the bedroom. The sun burned down upon his unprotected head,
but he did not feel it.
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