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.

Then he remembered that the corral fence was burned, that there had
been no horses there when he went to let the chickens out. He followed
horse-tracks to the edge of the timber and then turned back. The
horses had been stampeded by the flames and the shooting. Pete knew
that they might be miles from the cabin. He cut across the mesa to the
trail and trudged down toward Concho. His eyes burned and his throat
ached. The rifles grew heavy, but he would not leave them. It was
significant that Pete thought of taking nothing else from the cabin,