Eli Patterson had been a Quaker, a man of deep conviction who never touched a gun fo r his own use and did not approve of those who did. Yet he was dead, shot to death, and buried her e among the victims of gun and knife, and i f rumor could be credited, he had himself died gun i n hand. The flame flickered out and the dropped matc h hissed against the sodden earth. "Anybody but him," Shevlin said aloud; "anybody but old Eli." The splash of a footstep in a pool of wate r warned him an instant before the voice spoke. "Kind of wet up here, isn't it?" Mike Shevlin straightened slowly to hi s feet, glad his slicker was unbuttoned and hi s gun ready to hand. Enemies he would surely fin d at Rafter Crossing, but he could expect n o friends. He took his time in facing around, careful tha t his movements be not misunderstood. Through the pouring rain and the darkness he could see th e bulk of a square, powerfully built man. Lightning flared, throwing the grave crosse s into sharp relief, lighting the water-soaked earth , and making an occasional gleam on stone, but of th e wide face before him he could make out n o detail.
