Silver Creek - G.L. Snodgrass Page 0,79

to the barn. But no people. No wife out feeding the chickens. No rancher out checking his stock.

Adding to the mystery. The smoke rising from the chimney had slowed. Someone was letting the fire die off.

Slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t place it yet, but he knew enough to go slowly.

“Helloooo the house,” he called out to let them know he was there.

No answer.

Duke, panting next to him, looked up at him, silently asking if he should go in first.

Then he found it, the thing that had set off his alarms. A red muddy spot just a few feet from the front door. And a square drag mark from the mud back to the front door.

The unusual tint to the mud made his stomach clench up. Only blood turned dirt that color. A lot of blood. And no man butchers an animal in front of his door.

Climbing down off his horse, he tied Blue to the corral rail then told Duke to stay. The dog glanced up at him with a questioning expression, obviously not liking the idea of his friend going in alone.

Jack took a deep breath and adjusted the gun on his hip. Then, thinking it through, he reached back and removed his rifle from its scabbard. A man could never have enough firepower.

As he passed the wet spot in the yard he read the signs. A man had been shot. The large boot prints and the size of the drag mark confirmed it. He could spot the elbow marks in the dirt where the man had pulled himself along the ground.

A quick glance around told him that the boot marks were alone. Whoever had shot him had done it from a distance.

“Hello,” he called.

A grunt from inside the house surprised him. He had expected with that much blood they’d be dead long ago.

“Can I come in? Do you need help?”

There was a long pause then a deep voice said, “You the one that’s killed me?”

Jack had to admire the man’s courage, he had always appreciated gallows humor. Heaven knew he had seen more than enough of it to last a lifetime.

“No,” he said to the man inside. “If I kill a man, I do it close. You would have seen me.”

The man grunted then told him to come in.

Jack used his rifle to slowly push the door open then winced. The man sat on a wooden chair. One arm resting on the table, the other hand holding his stomach together. A flash of bad memories shot through Jack. Gut shot, the man was as good as dead. No one survived that.

“Excuse me for not getting up,” the man said. “It seems my legs aren’t working right.”

“What happened,” Jack asked as he scanned the room for hidden dangers.

The wounded man shrugged. “Stepped outside to tend the stock and some fool shot me. What does it look like?”

Jack ignored the bitterness in the man’s voice. “Anything I can do for you?” he asked as he stepped closer.

“Water.”

Once again, Jack winced. The battlefield doctors used to say never give a gut shot man water. It just hurried the process. But Jack figured a dying man’s wish took precedent. He grabbed a tin cup off the counter and filled it from a bucket.

The man thanked him as he took the cup then sighed with contentment after a long drink.

“Thought for sure I was going to die of thirst before the bullet finished its work.”

Jack nodded as he examined the man. About his own age of thirty. He was well built but short. But then, most men were short when compared to him.

“Any idea who could have done this?” he asked the man.

The man shook his head then grunted as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

“No idea,”

A long awkward silence fell over them. Jack had spent too much time among the dying to push the issue. He would let the other man lead the way.

Suddenly, the man scoffed and shook his head. “I was supposed to get married tomorrow. Do you believe that.”

Jack cringed. “A jealous beau?” he asked, referring to the shooting.

“No, couldn’t be,” the man grunted. “I ordered her through the mail. From St Louis. Supposed to arrive tomorrow.”

Jack kept quiet. He had heard that more men were doing this. It sounded too desperate in his view. But, a man could make his own choices.

The wounded man closed his eyes for a moment as if