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ou climb down? I suppose you've had breakfast?" Patty swung from the saddle and stood holding the bridle reins. "Yes, I've had breakfast, thank you. Don't let me keep you from yours." "Had mine, too. If you don't mind I'll wash up these dishes, though. Just drop your reins--like mine. Your cayuse will stand as long as the reins are hangin'. It's the way they're broke--'tyin' 'em to the ground,' we call it." He glanced at her horse's feet, and pointed to a place beneath the fetlock from which the hair had been rubbed: "Rope burnt," he opined. "You oughtn't to put him out on a picket rope. Use hobbles. There's a couple of pair in your dad's war-bag." "War-bag?" "Yeh, it's down in Watts's barn, if he ain't hauled it up for you." "What are hobbles?" The man stepped to the tent and returned a moment later with two heavy straps fastened together by a bit of chain and a swivel. "These are hobbles, they work like this." He stooped and fastened the straps about the forelegs of the horse just above the fetlock. "He can get around all right, but he can't get far, and there is no rope to snag him." Patty nodded. "Thank you," she said. "I'll try it. But how do you know there are hobbles in dad's pack?" "Where would they be? He had a couple of pair. All his stuff is in there. He always traveled light." "Did you leave my father's war-bag, as you call it, at Watts's?" "Yeh, he was in somethin' of a hurry and didn't want to go around by the trail, so he left his outfit here and struck straight through the hills." "Why was he in a hurry?" The man placed the dishes in a pan and poured water over them. "I've got my good guess," he answered, thoughtfully. "Which may mean anything, and tells me nothing." Holland nodded, as he carefully wiped his tin plate. "Yeh, that's about the size of it." His attitude angered the girl. "And I have heard he was not the only one in the hills that was in a hurry that day, and I suppose I can have my 'good guess' at that, and I can have my 'good guess' as to who cut daddy's pack sack, too." "Yeh, an' you can change your guess as often as you want to." "And every time I change it, I'd get farther from the truth." "You might, an' you might get nearer." The cowpuncher was looking at her squarely, now. "You ain't left-handed, are you?" he asked, abruptly. "No, of course not! Why?" "Because, if you ain't, you better change that belt around so the holster'll carry on
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