following him downstream.
     I got you, God-dog it, the thief shouted as he grabbed the gelding by the reins. Then they started reversing course, moving back towards where I now lay hid behind a beached cottonwood blowdown.
    When they came up on the gravel, the old man swung the horse around to shield him from where he imagined me to be, on the opposite side of the river. The gelding was trying to get some composure now that he was standing on solid footing; but his nostrils was flared out bad, drooling snot.
      You Ok now, buddy, the Voice said. We’ll git along just fine once you calm down.
     I saw a circling hawk high up behind the old man’s back, which I took to be a decent sign. Some of the Indians in them parts considered hawks as messengers of good fortune, but I figured they was more a indication of the presence of plenty of rabbits in the neighborhood. Which is a pretty good sign, at that.
      When the Voice had the gelding reasonably calm, he tied the reins together in a loop and proceeded to walk back up the shore to where he’d dropped that gun. Only thing was, it wadn’t there no more. What he didn’t know was gonna hurt him.
      Got one; two more to go, the Voice told hisself, a sickly grin on his face. He couldn’t had more than three teeth left in his sorry head. And who knows where his nasty hat had gotten to?
      It ain’t right, stealing a man’s horse, I said from behind my log.
What in blazes? the Voice hissed, spinning around, thinking maybe a ghost was upon him.
      Around here we hang a bastard for thieving horses, I told him.

      The old man slunk down low, letting go the gelding.
      Like hell! he said. I’ll shoot yourself before you git no rope round me, he proclaimed with a sneer. With that, he darted towards where his gun was spose to be.
      I never knew a horse to be what you’d call vengeful, but that gelding did something I’d never seen before. Soon as the old man took to running, the horse went after him and laid a glancing kick to the side of the man’s head. It was plain out of the ordinary, if you ask me.
      The man went down in a heap but wadn’t out of the game yet. He still had me to get under control and needed his gun more than ever.
       Shit fire! he muttered through a bubble of bloody spit.
      He was getting up, trying to keep away from that horse. That was one tough son of a bitch, I’ll give him that much.
      Over here, old man, I said and rose up to where he could see me. He stood still as a stick for about ten seconds then looked where his gun ought to be.
       You stole my gun, he said, with a face of indignation. Even in his hurt, he had plenty of fight left in him.
       You stole my horse, I said and pointed his own gun directly at his skull.
      You ain’t got the nerve to pull that trigger, he hissed. But he didn’t know me worth a damn.
      I figured we done about all the talking necessary so I let off a round that grazed his head, taking off most of his right ear. Talk about poetic justice.
      Damn! he yelled and went down on both knees. There was blood spurting out of his head and he looked fit to be tied. But that would have to wait.
       I walked over to within five feet of the sodbuster and let off another round, this time hitting him directly in the chest. There wadn’t even a pause, he just fell over like he’d been hit by a tree and died on the spot. So much blood spewed out that a little tributary of crimson entered the river and mingled with the current.
       The gelding, having heard enough gun play for one morning, bolted upstream and disappeared behind some trees. I swam back across the river and collected my other two horses and my boots. When I got back to the scene of the shooting I saw a bevy of green bottle flies already making use of the old man’s splattered body.
       I carried a piece of rope in my saddlebag and took it out and made a noose. There was a low-hanging limb on a tree a few feet back from shore, so I tossed the rope over it and hitched it to the horn on the mare’s saddle.
       By the time I was ready to go, the old man was hanging by the neck like every horse thief deserves. A man can expect no less than to be treated fairly and that’s what the thief got from me.
       In return for all the trouble he caused me, I kept the dead man’s pistol. It wadn’t worth much, but a fool would likely give me something valuable for it in trade. And the way I figure it, about the best you can expect of this life is a decent bargain.