d Mr. Connors in an injured tone.
"Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu," he added for the sake of peace.

"Who has?" Came from the window, followed immediately by, "Yu've got my
boots!"

"I ain't--they're under th' bunk," contradicted and explained Mr.
Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, "I don't
know who's got them. If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with
myself?"

"Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that," came from the window,
accompanied by an overdone snicker.

Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the
varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything
but a pleasant state of mind.

Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking
as serious as he could.

"Any tracks?" He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see
for himself.

"Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for
all I can see," growled Mr. Connors.

"I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack an'
find out what he knows," suggested Mr. Cassidy. "This looks too good to
be a swap."

Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in
upon him. "Mebby they was hard pushed an' wanted fresh cayuses," he
said. "A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow,
we'll prospect th' boss."

They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast,
and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted
the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be
more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord's
room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for
the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.

"Much trade?" He inquired solicitously.

"Yep," replied the landlord.

Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been
any more with which to supply his trade. "Been out this morning?" he
pursued.

"Nope."

"Talks purty nigh as much as Buck," thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said
aloud, "Anybody else here?"

"Nope."

Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend
tried his hand.

"Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?"
asked Mr. Connors.

"Quien sabe?"

"Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes," thought Mr. Cassidy.

"Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star