CHAPTER IX
Sandy Larch was squatted on the sand, against the wall of his shack, lacing a new leather into the cincha-ring of his saddle, and singing The Tune The Old Cow Died On. The ditty was one of his favorites, but his soul was not in it this morning and he sang as mechanically as his fingers moved about their familiar task. It was the morning after Gard’s loss of the packet, and he had been out at daybreak, going over every foot of the breaking-ground, but he could find no trace of it.
“Gosh! I’m sorry,” he muttered, testing the new strap. “I hate to see Gard look like he did fer a spell yesterday. If I had any idee Westcott had that thing, whatever it was, I’d choke it out’n him, fer a punched two-bit-piece.”
He turned the saddle over to investigate the other strap, taking up the burden of his song again:
He rolled out the chorus at the top of his lungs, as he cut loose the cincha-thongs, and had carried the next verse to
When a shadow fell upon the sand before him, and he looked up to see Wing Chang.
“Well, my Chinee friend,” he said, “Why don’t you join in? Can’t you sing?”
“No can.” The cook shook his head; then the wrinkles about his slant eyes deepened, ran downward, and met, midway of his chops, the upward ones that started around his grinning mouth.