I
should have sent another man with him."
Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tight
and swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hot
flash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disaster
impending--and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward the
north. Again Corliss questioned Sundown. Tense with the stress of an
emotion that all but sealed his lips, Sundown turned his white face to
Corliss and whispered, "Wait!" The rancher felt that that one terse,
whispered word implied more than he cared to imagine. There was
something uncanny about the man. If the killing of Sinker could so
change the timorous, kindly Sundown to this grim, unbending epitome of
lean death and vengeance, what could he himself do to check the wild
fury of his riders when they heard of their companion's passing from
the sun?
Sinker's horse, grazing, lifted its head and nickered as they rode up.
They dismounted and turned the body over. Wingle, kneeling, examined
the cowboy's six-gun.
Corliss, in a burst of wrath, turned on Sundown. "Damn you, open your
mouth.
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