Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page B

at something among the grass and rocks just off the trail, on a little bank, half facing toward us. Jimbo swung out and cantered up, anxious to talk to Colin, I thought, and I followed close so as not to give him a chance.
    When I got there they were looking at an arrow made of stones. The earth clinging to some of the stones was still slightly damp—they had been plucked from their beds only a little while before.
    Underneath the arrow was a sign with a word and a number:
Fox 38
.
    “What the devil does that mean?” Colin demanded.
    Nobody needed to tell me what it meant, but there was no need for me to tell them.
    Reese was studying it, and finally he said, “You know what that looks like, Mr. Wells? It looks like one of those army signs, pointing out a company or battalion area.”
    “There never was any army up here,” Colin protested, “and that’s a fresh sign.”
    I knew the sign was intended for me, and for me alone. Both Pio and I had been with Fox Company—F Company, if you will—of the 38th. It was a tough, fighting outfit that made a name for itself, and we had done some of that fighting before being moved as replacements to another company. Pio Alvarez knew I would read that sign for what it was; and where that arrow was he might be. Either that, or he was showing me this was my chance to get out, to get clear before it was too late.
    It wasn’t in me to let them rest easy. “If Reese is right, Colin,” I said cheerfully, “you may be in trouble. If that stands for Fox Company of the 38th Infantry there’s somebody around who was a first-class fighting man. They did a beautiful job in Korea.”
    They simply looked at me, not knowing what to make of it, but it gave Jimbo the chance he wanted. “This guy claims he used to punch cows!” he said. “I mean this writer here.”
    They didn’t believe it. Their minds had formed a picture, and what Jimbo told them didn’t fit into the frame they had accepted for me. Nor did it interest them very much, for they were wholly concerned with the fact that somebody unknown to them was obviously in the vicinity, and that interfered with their plans.
    “That sign was probably made by the rider who came up the trail ahead of us,” I commented. “But aren’t we wasting a lot of time? I have to get back into town, and I’d like to see that Indian writing before it gets dark.”
    “It ain’t far,” Reese said, almost absently. He was looking in the direction in which the arrow pointed, trying to follow along with his mind, trying to see the trail ahead and where it might lead. “You go on, boss. I’m going to see where that arrow points.”
    “Let me go,” I said. “Belle and I—we can ride out there a little way and see what we can find.”
    “You stay with us,” Colin said curtly. “You could get in trouble out there.” He hesitated, looking along the slope where Floyd Reese was riding. After a minute or two he swung his mount. “Come on,” he said, and started on along the trail.
    Half a mile farther along the trail started to dip down in a series of switchbacks to cross Little Cougar. On our right the massive escarpment of Cook’s Mesa reared almost a thousand feet above us, and our trail mounted a spur. We had started up when from somewhere behind us there sounded a rifle shot, then another.
    Jimbo swore, and Colin twisted in the saddle. Only Doris seemed cool. Suddenly I found myself watching her. She was listening, as calmly as she might have listened to some story told in her own living room.
    “Colin!” Jimbo called. “Keep movin’! Let’s get off the mountain!”
    Reluctantly, it seemed, Colin went on. Belle was right ahead of me now, and only Jimbo was behind. My bronc was growing increasingly nervous, craning his neck away from the awesome drop that lay close at hand.
    Belle turned in her saddle. “That’s the Rincon.” She pointed ahead.
    I knew it was the Rincon. I knew all of this country from the aerial photos, but all I