With a two-days’ growth of beard on his chin and jaws, a new, hard look in his eyes and the general appearance of a man who has been riding long and has slept in all his clothes, Lance rode quietly up to the corral gate and dismounted. A certain stiffness was in his walk when he led Coaley inside and turned a stirrup up over the saddle horn, his gloved fingers dropping to the latigo. Lance was tired––any one could see that at a glance. That he was preoccupied, and that his preoccupation was not pleasant, was also evident to the least observing eye.
Tom, coming out of the bunk house, studied him with narrowed lids as he came walking leisurely down to the corral. Tom’s movements also betrayed a slight stiffness of the muscles, as though he had ridden hard and long. He did not hurry. Lance had pulled off the saddle and the sweaty blanket and the bridle, and had turned Coaley into the corral before he knew that some one was coming. 273 Even then he did not turn to look. He was staring hard at a half-dozen horses grouped in the farther corner of the corral,––horses with gaunt flanks and the wet imprint of saddles. They were hungrily nosing fresh piles of hay, and scarcely looked up when Coaley trotted eagerly up to join them. Six of them––a little more than half of the outfit that had ridden away the other night.
“Well! I see you helped yourself to a new saddle horse,” Tom observed significantly, coming up behind Lance.
“Yes. Coaley acted lonesome, shut up in the box stall. Thought a little riding would do him good.” Lance’s eyes met Tom’s calmly, almost as if the two were mere acquaintances.
“You give him a plenty, looks like. Where yuh been?”
“I? Oh––just riding around.” Lance stooped indifferently to untie his slicker and blanket from the saddle.
“Thought I’d like to use him myself. Thinking some of riding into town this afternoon,” Tom said, still studying Lance.
“Well, if you want to ride Coaley, he’s good for it. I’d say he has more miles in him yet than any of that bunch over there.” With slicker and blanket roll Lance started for the house.
Tom did not say anything. He was scowling thoughtfully after Lance when Belle, coming from the chicken house with a late hatching of fluffy 274 little chicks in her hat, looked at him inquiringly. To her Tom turned with more harshness than he had shown for many a long day.
“Schoolin’ don’t seem to set good on a Lorrigan,” he said. “How long’s he goin’ to stay this time?”