He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard. He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand. What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching.
Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.
When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine. It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle. The barrel was empty, too.
Somebody had deliberately emptied his rifle while he slept!
(from Lonely On the Mountain, by Louis L'Amour)
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