The only thing the fellow carried about him but his guns and ammunition was a patent medicine memorandum book, such as cowboys of that day generally kept a record of their time in to be presented in case of argument with the boss. This contained nothing; not even a mark. But Nearing took possession of it, along with the few dollars the range wolf owned, saying they must be turned over to the coroner.
"I heard a man at Saunders say he went by the name of Wells, and that he lived on Horse Creek," Barrett said.
"You can't go much on what you hear in this country. Where's his partner gone?"
"He stayed back with the cattle, I don't know where he is now."
"Well, it don't matter, I guess. Wait—I'll catch this one's horse for you."
Nearing said nothing more of the fight and its bitter ending, dismissing it as a mere incidental of the day. He did not congratulate Barrett on his victory, nor express any satisfaction over the recovery of the four or five hundred dollars' worth of stock. All of which appeared to Barrett very strange and unusual.
To Barrett the adventure was painfully exciting; its termination had left him shaken and weak. Spectres of remorse, fear, accusation, rose thick in his troubled mind. He had killed a human being, and this serene, unmoved, indifferent man beside him had not a word of comfort, condemnation or justification to utter.
Perhaps it was the way of the range to pass over tragedies such as this in silence; maybe it was no more
