“Where did you get that double-rigged saddle, then?”
“Texas.”
The answer had pleased Smith.
“You ain’t losin’ none on this deal,” he had then volunteered. “This horse that you just traded for is a looker when he is rested, and he can run like hell. You can go your pile on him. Just burn out that lazy S brand and run on your own. You can hold him easy, then. I like a feller that rides a double-rigged saddle in a single-rigged country. S’long, and keep your hands up till I’m out of range.”
“Thank you,” the dude had replied feebly.
When Smith had ridden for a half a mile he had turned to look behind him. The dude was still standing with his hands high above his head.
“I wonder if he’s there yet?” The man on horseback grinned.
He reached in the pocket of his mackinaw coat and took out a handful of sugar.
“You can travel longer on it nor anything,” he muttered.
He congratulated himself that he had filled his pocket from the booze-clerk’s sugar-bowl before the mix came. The act was characteristic of him, as was the forethought which had sent him to the door to pick the best saddle-horse at the hitching-post, before the lead began to fly.