nothing. Once or twice, a mile or so from the ranch house, he half stopped and snorted, but Tom quieted him with a hand on his neck. Tom himself was on the alert now, and the Sheriff's warning recurred to him. But for another half mile nothing happened. Then a shot came from somewhere to the left, and was repeated.
He felt the big horse jump and quiver and knew that he was hit, but he lunged ahead in a sort of broken gallop. Tom slid out of the saddle on the right side and hung there, but the Miller was still running, and the shots were not repeated. But at the end of a mile the animal came down heavily. Tom, dropping behind him for safety, hatred and savage anger in his heart, felt him struggle once and lie still.
He remained where he was until dawn, crouched behind the dead animal, waiting and listening, but nothing more happened. At times he talked to the big horse. With the first daylight he walked back to the scene of the tragedy, morose and blindly revengeful, but although he searched the creek foot by foot he found no trace of the killer. He went on foot back to the ranch, borrowed a horse and got a spade. Then he went back. But he could not bury the Miller. The ground was frozen hard.
He roped the body and dragged it away from the road, and then piled snow and rocks over it. But he knew it was no use. By nightfall the coyotes would have scented it, and be making their wary circles about it; then they would close in.
