en.

"I'll tell you. It's when I'm sitting down to eat my supper. I'm just
reaching out my hand like this, to get my coffee. And something says
in my head, 'It's a lie. I don't ride backwards. Go look at my
saddle. There's blood----' And that's all. It's like the words go
far away so I can't hear any more. So I eat my supper, and then I get
the lantern and I go look. You come with me, Lone. I'll show you."

Without a word Lone dismounted and followed Swan into a small shed
beside the stable, where a worn stock saddle hung suspended from a
cross-piece, a rawhide string looped over the horn. Lone did not ask
whose saddle it was, nor did Swan name the owner. There was no need.

Swan took the saddle and swung it around so that the right side was
toward them. It was what is called a full-stamped saddle, with the
popular wild-rose design on skirts and cantle. Much hard use and
occasional oilings had darkened the leather to a rich, red brown,
marred with old scars and scratches and the stains of many storms.

"Blood is hard to find when it's raining all night," Swan observed,
speaking low as one does in the presence of death. "But if somebody is
bleeding and falls off a horse slow, and catches hold of things and
tries like hell to hang on----" He lifted the small flap that covered
the cinch ring and revealed a reddish, flaked stain. Phlegmatically he
wetted his finger tip on his tongue, rubbed the stain and held up his
finger for Lone to see. "That's a damn funny place for blood, when a
man is dragging on the ground," he commented dryly. "And something
else is damn funny, Lone."

He lifted the wooden stirrup and touched with his finger the rowel
marks. "That is on the front part," he said. "I could swear in court
that Fred's left foot was twisted--that's damn funny, Lone. I don't
see men ride backwards, much."

Lone turned on him and struck the stirrup from his hand. "I think you
better forget it," he said fiercely. "He's dead--it can't help him any
to----" He stopped and pulled himself together. "Swan, you take a
fool's advice and don't tell anybody else about feeling words talk in
your head. They'll have you in the bug-house at Black-foot, sure as
you live." He looked at the saddle, hesitated, looked again at Swan,
who was watching him. "That blood most likely got there when Fred was
packing a deer in from the hills. And marks on them old oxbow stirrups
don't mean a damn thing but the nee