A tall, lean young man, with much of his weight in his chest and shoulders and arms. And there was no smell of whiskey in the air.īodine finished his smoke and stood up. No Indian would have done that, unless he was drunk. They had also stepped on a couple of branches, breaking them. The men who had done this all wore moccasins, but they didn’t walk like Indians they walked like what they were: white men. But after only a hasty look-around, Bodine knew it was not. This act of torture was supposed to look like the work of Indians. He smoked and pondered the situation, not liking any of it. Then the man squatted down and pulled the makings out of his vest pocket and rolled a smoke, licking the tube tight and lighting up. Had there been more people around, the animals would not be so careless.īodine walked back to his horse and picked up the reins where he’d ground-reined the big line-back dun stallion and tied the reins to a low branch. A squirrel came down the side of a tree and began searching the ground for food. The bird began preening itself and Bodine relaxed. He watched as a bird flew in and landed on a branch. One look at the expression frozen on his dead face told him that the man had died long and hard.īodine stood up and carefully swept his surroundings with his eyes, missing nothing. The man’s bare feet were still in the smoldering fire. The body was still warm, and Matt Bodine’s eyes did not linger long on the hideously tortured flesh of the man.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |