lla.theburninghills-第2部分

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　His　head　throbbed　heavily。　His　mouth　was　dry；　his　lips　parched　and　broken。　He　had　a　fever　。。。　he　could　feel　it。　His　wound　would　be　dirty　and　he　could　feel　the　gnawing　agony　of　it　constantly。　His　hands　felt　unnaturally　large　and　his　head　was　heavy　and　awkward。
　When　his　horse　crested　the　mesa　at　last；　he　drew　up　briefly。　He　could　feel　the　wind。　It　was　almost　cold　through　his　sweat…soaked　shirt。　He　turned　in　the　saddle　and　looked　back　again。
　Faintly；　far　away　still；　a　wisp　of　dust　hung　against　the　blue　backdrop　of　the　hills。　A　wisp　of　dust　and　then　another　and　still　another。
　The　horse　walked　on　。。。　the　mesa　was　flat；　stretching　away　to　infinity；　broken　by　few　rocks　and　by　a　scattering　of　gnarled　and　twisted　cedars　and　by　a　few　thorns。　Sparse　grass；　tight…clinging　to　the　sand；　showed　here　and　there。　At　places　the　rock　surface　of　the　mesa　had　been　swept　clean　by　the　wind。　The　horse　walked　on。
　He　carried　a　pebble　in　his　mouth　to　relieve　the　thirst。　Twice　he　dismounted　and　walked　to　relieve　the　horse　of　his　weight；　to　let　him　rest。　There　was　no　telling　how　soon　he　might　again　have　to　make　a　break　for　it　and　the　horse's　strength　might　mean　his　life。
　He　walked　several　miles　before　he　fell　。。。　For　a　long　time　he　lay　where　he　had　fallen；　unable　to　summon　the　strength　to　rise。　The　wind　stirred　a　wisp　of　hair　against　his　forehead　and　the　horse　nuzzled　him　impatiently。　His　thoughts　no　longer　clear；　he　got　drunkenly　to　his　knees　and　got　hold　of　the　stirrup；　pulling　himself　erect。　Somehow　he　got　into　the　saddle　and；　of　his　own　volition；　the　horse　began　to　walk。
　Heat　waves　shimmered　their　veil　across　the　distance。　A　few　cottony　puffballs　of　cloud　hung　against　the　brassy　sky　。。。　perspiration　trickled　down　his　body　and　weird　dust…devils　played　across　the　mesa　before　him。　Above　the　mirage　of　a　distant　blue　lake　the　heads　of　the　cedars　peered　like　strange　beings　from　some　enchanted　world。
　He　worked　his　jaws；　his　brain　throbbed　heavily　and　when　he　shifted　his　gaze　his　eyeballs　grated　dryly　in　their　sockets；　moving　with　painful　slowness。　There　were　passages　of　delirium　then；　through　which　were　woven　thin　threads　of　sanity。
　He　must　rest　soon。　If　he　fell　now　he　could　not　get　up　again　but　must　lie　helpless　until　his　enemies　came　upon　him　and　killed　him。　Yet　he　had　done　nothing　but　what　any　man　would　have　done。　He　had　done　nothing　he　did　not　have　to　do。
　Old　Bob　Sutton　was　dead　。。。　the　old　bull　of　the　herd　shot　down　in　the　dusty　street；　and　his　sons　and　nephews　would　never　stop　hunting　until　Trace　Jordan　had　been　tracked　down　and　killed。
　A　few　days　ago　he　had　been　a　wild…horse　hunter　with　no　troubles。　He　and　Johnny　Hendrix　had　gone　broke　trying　to　buck　a　faro　layout　and；　drifting　west；　they　came　upon　a　herd　of　wild　horses。　For　a　month　they　lived　on　the　country；　finally　trapping　two　dozen　horses　in　a　box　canyon。　One　by　one　they　broke　them　and　slapped　on　their　brand；　the　JH；　for　Jordan　Hendrix。　All　were　good　stock；　better　than　they　had　a　right　to　expect　from　wild　stock。　Trace　Jordan　had　gone　off　to　find　a　market　and　to　buy　more　grub　with　their　last　three　dollars；　for　there　were　still　a　few　horses　they　wanted。
　A　bartender　remembered　them　in　Durango　and　loaned　Trace　Jordan　money　for　supplies　and　he　returned　to　camp。
　Only　there　was　no　camp　and　there　were　no　horses。　All　were　gone；　the　camp　trampled　out　by　the　rush　of　horses　and　Johnny　lying　dead　near　the　water　hole　with　four　bullets　in　him　and　his　gun　gone。
　The　afternoon　was　still　and　hot。　The　sun　glared　down　upon　the　basin　and　Johnny　lay　with　his　face　against　the　baked　earth　and　two　of　the　bullets　in　him　had　been　fired　into　his　back　while　he　lay　sprawled　on　the　ground。　Whoever　had　done　this　had　wanted　to　make　sure。　They　wanted　to　leave　nothing　behind。　Only　they　hadn't　known　about　Trace　Jordan。
　There　were　those　back　down　the　trail　who　knew　Trace　Jordan　as　a　quiet　easy…going　man。　Hell　on　wheels　with　a　gun；　some　said；　a　man　who　could　follow　a　trail　like　an　Apache。　In　the　rough…and…tumble　brawls　of　saloon　and　trail　camp　he　was　one　of　the　best。　He　had　killed　a　man　in　Tascosa　who　called　him　a　liar　and　he　killed　four　Indians　who　trapped　him　in　a　buffalo　wallow　north　of　Adobe　Walls。　And　a　gun…slinger　had　died　of　bad　judgment　on　the　Ruidoso。　But　Trace　Jordan　was　a　quiet　man。
　Slowly；　taking　infinite　pains；　he　worked　out　the　story　of　the　fight。
　Six　men　had　e　in　from　the　north。　Spotting　the　horse　camp；　they　had　kept　back　in　the　brush　along　the　creek　and　studied　the　layout。
　It　must　have　been　about　noon。　The　spilled　bucket　lay　near　Johnny　and　the　frying　pan　lay　on　the　ground　near　the　scattered　fire。　They　had　e　up；　riding　slow。　Johnny　had　just　filled　the　bucket　and　was　leaving　the　spring　（his　tracks　were　cut　deeper　going　away　from　the　spring）　and　he　had　stopped　as　they　rode　up。
　Twice　in　the　days　that　followed　Jordan　wasted　time　on　streams；　yet　each　time　he　found　the　trail　again　and　by　that　time　he　could　identify　the　tracks　of　each　of　the　six　horses　and　those　of　several　of　the　riders。　He　had　studied　their　tracks　around　their　camps　and　around　the　trails　and　by　that　time　he　knew　something　of　their　dispositions　and　manner。
　One　man　rarely　smoked　more　than　half　a　cigarette。　He　occasionally　took　only　a　few　nervous　puffs；　then　dropped　it。　Another　wore　large…roweled　Mexican…style　spurs　that　left　an　imprint　when　he　squatted　on　his　heels。
　After　a　week　of　such　travel　he　rode　into　the　street　of　Tokewanna。　It　was　a　single　dusty　street　with　the　usual　clapboarded　false…front　buildings　and　several　of　adobe。　And　a　man　loitering　on　the　street　took　one　quick；　startled　glance　at　the　brand　on　his　horse　and　ducked　into　a　saloon。
　Trace　Jordan　swung　down　from　his　horse　and　loose…tied　him　at　the　hitchrail。　Yet　when　he　went　into　the　saloon　there　was　no　sign　of　the　man　he　sought。　Trace　ordered　a　drink　and　looked　around　at　the　three　men　playing　cards　。。。　another　man　leaned　against　the　bar。　Trace　Jordan　glanced　at　his　spurs。
　〃How　about　a　drink？〃
　The　man　moved　over　as　he　spoke。　He　was　young；　rugged…looking；　a　working　cowhand。　When　their　glasses　were　filled　he　lifted　his　and　looked　at　Trace　Jordan。　〃Here's　to　you　and　the　trail　ahead。〃
　They　drank　and　Trace　said　quietly；　〃I　may　stick　around　for　a　while。〃
　〃My　advice；〃　the　young　man　was　smiling；　〃keep　travelin'〃
　The　implication　was　obvious。　To　the　man　in　the　street　the　JH　brand　on　his　horse　had　meant　something　and　that　had　to　mean　the　man　knew　about　the　killing　of　Johnny。　He　either　knew　or　had　been　one　of　the　killers。　Obviously；　in　passing　through　the　saloon　he　had　said　something　to　this　man。　Trace　was　now　being　warned　away　and　that　implied　the　six　had　friends。
　〃Had　some　horses　stolen；〃　Jordan　said。　〃My　partner　was　murdered。　I　trailed　'em　here。〃
　The　young　man　was　no　longer　smiling。　He　took　the　last　drop　from　his　glass　and　stepped　back　from　the　bar。　〃Depends　on　how　much　country　a　man　needs。〃
　Jordan　waited　the　explanation；　his　eyes　missing　nothing　in　the　room。　The　men　at　the　table　were　alert　and　listening。
　〃Six　thousand　miles　out　there；〃　the　man　said；　〃or　six　feet　here。〃
　The　harshness　of　the　trail　had　drawn　him　fine。　He　turned　from　the　bar；　a　big　tough　lonely　man　suddenly　showing　all　the　danger　that　was　in　him。　The　young　man　took　a　step　back；　suddenly　wary。
　〃I　already　bought　chips；〃　Jordan　said。　〃They　dealt　the　hand。〃
　He　turned　from　the　bar　and　went　through　the　door　and　then　he　saw　the　big　old　man　ing　up　the　street　on　the　steeldust。　Trace　had　gentled　that　steeldust　himself。　He　had　taken　time　with　the　horse。　Next　to　the　big　red　horse　he　rode；　it　had　been　the　best　of　the　lot。
　The　old　man　had　a　shock　of　white　hair。　His　eyes　were　fierce　and　manding。　When　he　stepped　down　from　the　saddle　there　was　something　of　the　thing　in　his　manner。
　Trace　Jordan　stepped　down　from　the　walk　and　started　across　the　street　toward　the　old　man；　a　tall　man　with　an　easy　woodsman's　walk　and　the　knowledge　that　he　was　heading　right　into　trouble。　Down　the　street　a　man　stopped　。。。　another　appeared　in　the　entrance　to　the　store。
　The　brand　on　the　steeldust　had　been　worked　over　and　an　excellent　job。　The　JH　had　been　turned　into　an　SB。
　The　old　man　looked　across　the　saddle　at　him；　a　strong　old　man　with　fierce　unrelenting　eyes。　〃What's　the　matter？　Lookin'　for　something？〃
　Remembering　Johnny　lying　in　the　dried　mud　beside　the　water…hole；　Trace　told　him：　〃I'm　looking　for　the　man　who　stole　that　horse　from　me。　He's　mine。　I　caught　him。　I　broke　him。　I　branded　him　JH　…〃
　Quick　temper　flared　in　the　hard　old　eyes。　〃You　callin'　me　a　horse　thief？〃　He　stepped　around　the　horse　to　face　Jordan。　He　was　wearing　a　tied…down　gun。
　〃I'm　only　saying　that's　my　horse　you're　riding。　He's　a　stolen　horse。〃
　〃You're　a　dirty　liar！〃
　When　the　old　man's　hand　dropped　to　his　gun；　Trace　Jordan　shot　him　through　the　stomach。
　Jordan　looked　over　the　smoking　gun　at　two　bystanders。　〃Walk　out　there　and　lift　that　saddle　skirt；　both　of　you。〃　When　they　started　walking　he　said；　〃If　there　isn't　a　four…inch　white　scar　under　the　saddle　skirt；　find　a　bar。〃　The　scar　was　there　。。。
　〃No　matter；〃　one　of　the　men　told　him；　〃maybe　this　is　your　horse　but　that　old　man　was　no　thief。　You'd　better　ride　before　they　hang　you。〃
　There　was　an　instant　then　when　Trace　Jordan　looked　down　into　the　dying　m