Charbonneau pushed to his feet and nodded at his partners.
‘It’s him. Linus Dorn. Looks like a couple of shots. Must have hit hard and he bled to death.’
Kellin shrugged. ‘Amateur.’
Jay Kellin, although a mustanger, sported a cared-for Remington pistol. He had a reputation as a man to be reckoned with when it came to using the weapon. He didn’t feel the need to have to go around boasting about his skill. Kellin let his gun prove his point.
‘Cabot wants this Bodie feller putting down. Why he sent us,’ the third man said. His name was Royster. A cold-eyed individual who wore a buckskin outfit and a coonskin hat, Royster seldom asked for anything and certainly did not give anything away. He had no sidearm. Simply carried a Henry repeating rifle and was no slouch when it came to using it. On the broad belt he wore hung a war hatchet he had taken from a Sioux warrior he had killed many years ago. On his other hip was a sheathed knife. It was said Royster enjoyed the act of killing a little too much, but no one would ever say it in hearing distance.
‘This feller, Bodie, it don’t call to mess around with him. Man has proved his worth plenty,’ Charbonneau said. ‘Heard the stories about him.’
‘Bullet will cut him down same as any other man,’ Royster stated.
Rain was falling now, hissing down from a clouded sky. None of the three paid any attention to it. They were well used to the variable weather of the high country and were not about to allow it to put them off what they had to do.
Back in the saddle Charbonneau swung his shaggy mustang back on the trail and the three moved off.
The man called Bodie was ahead of them. They were closing on him, familiar with the mountain trails, and they figured they would make contact before dark.
Sooner or later they would be close enough to take on the manhunter.