Guardians of the Sage by Harry Sinclair Drago

Jim’s mind.
    Montana’s jaws clicked together ominously. He thought, “A Bar S bullet may have got Gene, but Quantrell is the real murderer.” Aloud he said, “You know it’s awfully easy to lame a horse, Brent—awfully convenient sometimes.”
    The three boys understood him, but they had no reply to make. Montana turned to Dan Crockett.
    â€œDan, I’m going up there,” he said. “I can make it before daylight. “Just keep on hoping for the best until I get back.”
    Crockett nodded glumly. Hope was dead in his heart.
    â€œIt’ll be dangerous, Jim—”
    â€œDon’t think about that. Somebody’s got to go.” He spoke to Brent again, asking him where they had crossed the North Fork.
    â€œAt the monument rock. Guess you know where I mean.” Jim nodded. “There’s a big flat just above it. That’s where all the shootin’ wuz . . . If you’re goin’, Montana, I’ll go with you.”
    â€œNo, I’ll go alone,” Jim declared. He asked Dan to walk down to the corral with him. “Better keep your eye on Brent. Tell him to stay away from the house until I get back. For the present, Dan, I wouldn’t say anything to the wife,” he advised. “It may not be as bad as we think.”
    â€œI reckon it’ll be bad enough,” Dan muttered hopelessly. “I seen this comin’, Jim. I felt it all evenin’ . . . Poor, foolish boy.”
    He helped Jim to saddle up.
    â€œDon’t seem that you should be the one to go,” he said. “They’ll mow you down quicker than any of us.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Dan; I’ll be all right.”
    He left without another word. It was his intention to be across the North Fork before dawn, and he did not spare his horse.
    A breeze had sprung up. It was cool against his cheek. It helped him to think. Long before he reached the creek, he had decided on his course of action. In line with it, he crossed the North Fork a mile below the monument and headed for the hills so as to come out above the big flat where the fighting had occurred.
    The rising wind alone would have told him that dawn was not far away. By the time he reached the head of the flat, the shadows were beginning to lighten to the east. Below him it still was night.
    From where he stood it was possibly three-quarters of a mile to the creek.
    â€œNo use to go ahead on foot,” he thought. “If I find him, I’ve got to get out in a hurry. I’ll need a horse right quick.”
    The fire the boys had lighted had been put out, but the smell of burned grass filled his nostrils. It was very still. As he stopped every few feet, he could hear distinctly the purling of the creek.
    The rolling plain was without cover of any sort. If Reb and his men were watching—and he had every reason to believe they were—they would locate him quickly enough as soon as it grew light.
    â€œMaybe they don’t know Gene is here,” he mused. That would be in his favor. On the other hand, if they had found the boy, and he was not dead, they hardly would have left him there. Jim refused to believe Reb would be that heartless.
    Minutes fled as he continued his search. The sky was already pink and yellow beyond the Malheurs.
    He thought, “I’ll have to be on my way in a minute or two.”
    He urged his horse ahead. They had gone only a few yards when the animal stopped. Montana peered through the purple mists and saw only what he took to be a low rock outcropping. He kneed his horse, but got no response.
    â€œWhat is it, Paint?” he murmured. The horse’s ears were stiff and erect. Jim slid to the ground. Three or four steps and he saw that the brown patch was a tarpaulin, not a rock. He lifted one end of it. Gene lay there. He was dead.
    â€œPoor old Mother Crockett,” Jim thought. “It’s going to be awfully hard on her. He was her