“Nobody at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn't being rid when I saw him.”
“Hang it, man; that cayuse was stole from me!”
“Somewhat in the nature of a calamity, now ain't it?” smiled the stranger, enjoying his contributions to the success of the joke.
“You bet yore life it is!” shouted Hopalong, growing red and then pale. “You tell me who was leading him, understand?”
“Well, I couldn't see his face, honest I couldn't,” replied the stranger. “Every time I tried it I was shore blinded by the most awful an' horrible neck-kerchief I've ever had the hard luck to lay my eyes on. Of all the drunks I ever met, them there colors was—Hey! Wait a minute!” he shouted at Hopalong's back.
“Dave, gimme yore cayuse an' a rifle—quick!” cried Hopalong from the middle of the street as he ran towards the store. “Hypocrite son-of-a-hoss-thief went an' run mine off. Might 'a' knowed nobody but a thief could wear such a kerchief!”
“I'm with you!” shouted Dave, leading the way on the run towards the corral in the rear of his store.
“No, you ain't with me, neither!” replied Hopalong, deftly saddling. “This ain't no plain hoss-thief case—it's a private grudge. See you later, mebby,” and he was pacing a cloud of dust towards the outskirts of the town.