Pete dropped to the floor and crawled over to Annersley.  “Pop!” he called again and again.  Presently he realized that the kindly old man who had made a home for him, and who had been more like a real father than his earlier experiences had ever allowed him to imagine, would never again answer.  In the yellow haze of the lamp, Young Pete rose and dragging a blanket from the bed, covered the still form and the upturned face, half in reverence for the dead and half in fear that those dead lips might open and speak.

CHAPTER IV

JUSTICE

Dawn bared the smouldering evidence of that dastardly attack.  The stable and the lean-to, where Annersley had stored his buckboard and a few farm implements when winter came, the corral fence, the haystack, were feathery ashes, which the wind stirred occasionally as a raw red sun shoved up from behind the eastern hills.  The chicken-coop, near the cabin, had not been touched by the fire.  Young Pete, who had fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, was awakened by the cackling of the hens.  He jumped up.  It was time to let those chickens out.  Strange that his pop had not called him!  He rubbed his eyes, started suddenly as he realized that he was dressed—­and then he remembered . . .

He trembled, fearful of what he would see when he stepped into the other room.  “Pop!” he whispered.  The hens cackled loudly.  From somewhere in the far blue came the faint whistle of a hawk.  A board creaked under his foot and he all but cried out.  He stole to the window, scrambled over the sill, and dropped to the ground.  Through habit he let the chickens out.  They rushed from the coop and spread over the yard, scratching and clucking happily.  Pete was surprised that the chickens should go about their business so casually.  They did not seem to care that his pop had been killed.

He was back to the cabin before he realized what he was doing.  From the doorway he saw that still form shrouded in the familiar old gray blanket.  Something urged him to lift a corner of the blanket and look—­something stronger held him back.  He tip-toed to the kitchen and began building a fire.  “Pop would be gettin’ breakfast,” he whispered.  Pete fried bacon and made coffee.  He ate hurriedly, occasionally turning his head to glance at that still figure beneath the blanket.  Then he washed the dishes and put them carefully away, as his pop would have done.  That helped to occupy his mind, but his most difficult task was still before him.  He dared not stay in the cabin—­and yet he felt that he was a coward if he should leave.  Paradoxically he reasoned that if his pop were alive, he would know what to do.  Pete knew of only one thing to do—­and that was to go to Concho and tell the sheriff what had happened.  Trying his best to ignore the gray blanket, he picked up all the cartridges he could find, and the two rifles, and backed from the room.  He felt ashamed of the fear that drove him from the cabin.  He did not want his pop to think that he was a coward.  Partners always “stuck,” and yet he was running away.  “Good-bye, pop,” he quavered.  He choked and sobbed, but no tears came.  He turned and went to look for the horses.