Paoli, Vincennes, St. Louis. He walked at its side, out of the mud, studying the tracks for some sign that Bedwell had gone before him. After a while the sun came out.
The day was drawing on to noon when he spied the man in the black coat. The man was sitting a horse which he had pulled up at the top of a rise, sitting there motionless, looking off to the north, thinking, or watching something, or waiting for somebody. While Boone paused, the man's hand went inside his coat and came out with a pistol. Boone slipped to one side of the trail behind a tree. Still holding the pistol, the man got off his horse and tied it up. While his back was squarely turned Boone sneaked closer, watching through a screen of brush. The man picked a dead leaf from the ground and walked over to a tree and stuck the leaf against it, behind a finger of bark. He walked back about twenty steps, then leveled at the leaf and fired. Bark flew from the tree, almost a full hand above the leaf. The man shook his head and began reloading.
Boone slipped deeper into the woods and edged around behind him, keeping trees and bushes between them, planning to ease by and go on. It wouldn't do to let himself be seen spying. It made a body feel small, being caught that way. Besides, he didn't know about the man. You couldn't tell about strangers. Maybe, seeing him, this one would up and shoot. Or ask questions. Or take him into a town. If Boone had his own rifle, now, he might feel different. He could drill that leaf plumb center with Sure Shot. Despite his care the man saw him, just as he was about to get out of sight. The man shouted, "Hey, boy!" Boone made out not to hear. "Hey, you! What you running fer?" But now he was out of sight, and he stopped and waited, his breath light and quick in his throat, asking himself why he ran and whether he should run again if the man chased him. He hadn't done anything -in Indiana, anyway to make him shy away from people this way, unless it was to steal a hen. After while he heard the pop of the pistol and knew the man had gone back to his practice.
He listened as he went on, and watched the back trail, ready to slip into the woods and hide, and before he had gone a mile he caught a glimpse of movement behind him. A horseshoe rang against rock. The woods were thin here, but off to the left a thick stump squatted. He ran to it and threw himself down behind it, watching through a fringe of grass, hearing a long outward snuffle of the horse before he could see it. From behind a cluster of trees rode a dove great coat and a white beaver hat, and under it a sharp, lined face. Boone saw Old Sure Shot, tied to the saddle. He lay there until the horse and man had passed him and lost themselves in the woods ahead, reminding himself as they went by that a man couldn't outrun a horse or go up against a rifle unarmed, either. Then he got up and set out after them, trotting to keep close.
He came on Bedwell suddenly an hour later. Making a turn at the edge of a grove that had hidden the way, he saw the horse drinking at a creek that crossed the road, and Bedwell on the ground with his back toward him, flicking his snug leg with the switch he carried in his hand. They were no more than a stone's throw away. While Boone watched, Bedwell opened his breeches and made water, buttoning up slowly afterwards.
Now was the time, Boone told himself, but careful, careful! His hand dropped the poke. He felt his legs running under him and a breeze fanning his face. His feet kicked up a noise in the road. Bedwell straightened his trousers and turned and saw him and set himself, waiting, not trying to get the rifle from the saddle. He stood there and met the charge, and they went down, rolling into the little stream and out of it. Boone heard the horse snort and saw the hoofs dance away. He felt the man's hand slip under his cap and clamp on his hair. The other hand came up and the thumb of it found Boone's eye, and now the two hands worked together,
The day was drawing on to noon when he spied the man in the black coat. The man was sitting a horse which he had pulled up at the top of a rise, sitting there motionless, looking off to the north, thinking, or watching something, or waiting for somebody. While Boone paused, the man's hand went inside his coat and came out with a pistol. Boone slipped to one side of the trail behind a tree. Still holding the pistol, the man got off his horse and tied it up. While his back was squarely turned Boone sneaked closer, watching through a screen of brush. The man picked a dead leaf from the ground and walked over to a tree and stuck the leaf against it, behind a finger of bark. He walked back about twenty steps, then leveled at the leaf and fired. Bark flew from the tree, almost a full hand above the leaf. The man shook his head and began reloading.
Boone slipped deeper into the woods and edged around behind him, keeping trees and bushes between them, planning to ease by and go on. It wouldn't do to let himself be seen spying. It made a body feel small, being caught that way. Besides, he didn't know about the man. You couldn't tell about strangers. Maybe, seeing him, this one would up and shoot. Or ask questions. Or take him into a town. If Boone had his own rifle, now, he might feel different. He could drill that leaf plumb center with Sure Shot. Despite his care the man saw him, just as he was about to get out of sight. The man shouted, "Hey, boy!" Boone made out not to hear. "Hey, you! What you running fer?" But now he was out of sight, and he stopped and waited, his breath light and quick in his throat, asking himself why he ran and whether he should run again if the man chased him. He hadn't done anything -in Indiana, anyway to make him shy away from people this way, unless it was to steal a hen. After while he heard the pop of the pistol and knew the man had gone back to his practice.
He listened as he went on, and watched the back trail, ready to slip into the woods and hide, and before he had gone a mile he caught a glimpse of movement behind him. A horseshoe rang against rock. The woods were thin here, but off to the left a thick stump squatted. He ran to it and threw himself down behind it, watching through a fringe of grass, hearing a long outward snuffle of the horse before he could see it. From behind a cluster of trees rode a dove great coat and a white beaver hat, and under it a sharp, lined face. Boone saw Old Sure Shot, tied to the saddle. He lay there until the horse and man had passed him and lost themselves in the woods ahead, reminding himself as they went by that a man couldn't outrun a horse or go up against a rifle unarmed, either. Then he got up and set out after them, trotting to keep close.
He came on Bedwell suddenly an hour later. Making a turn at the edge of a grove that had hidden the way, he saw the horse drinking at a creek that crossed the road, and Bedwell on the ground with his back toward him, flicking his snug leg with the switch he carried in his hand. They were no more than a stone's throw away. While Boone watched, Bedwell opened his breeches and made water, buttoning up slowly afterwards.
Now was the time, Boone told himself, but careful, careful! His hand dropped the poke. He felt his legs running under him and a breeze fanning his face. His feet kicked up a noise in the road. Bedwell straightened his trousers and turned and saw him and set himself, waiting, not trying to get the rifle from the saddle. He stood there and met the charge, and they went down, rolling into the little stream and out of it. Boone heard the horse snort and saw the hoofs dance away. He felt the man's hand slip under his cap and clamp on his hair. The other hand came up and the thumb of it found Boone's eye, and now the two hands worked together,
Similar Books
