"Dig the bullet out of the tree."
"Pay nao heed to him!" Pete intoned. "He would but tangle us an' lead us
from him."
"Hold your tongue!" Barr ordered gruffly. "No man walks safe with one
among us who shoots men as he would a varmint! Get the bullet, Dabb!"
Dabb left a second time and Jeff hoped his wildly beating heart could
not be heard. To these mountain men killing was right, as long as men
met in a fair fight. But it was soul-blackening, the extreme depths of
degradation, to kill as Johnny Blazer's killer had, and that killer was
about to be known. Only one rifle could have fired the fatal shot, and
the hill men would recognize that bullet and know who had fired it. Or
would they? Four of the Whitneys present carried thirty caliber rifles
and there must be more in the hills. Jeff's hopes alternately rose and
waned.
Then Dabb came back and held up the leaden slug so all could see. Four
pairs of eyes swung accusingly on Pete. Mushrooming where it had struck
Johnny and then the tree, the slug still retained its shape where it had
fitted its brass shell. There could be no mistake; it was fifty caliber.