"How could I?" indignantly demanded Smitty. "My cayuse fair went wild, an' before I could get him under control he was clean out of th' canyon—I tell you I did some highfalutin' riding stickin' to a crazy hoss among all them rocks."
"How'd you get yore hat? Didn't it go off yore head?"
"Shore it did! I scooped it up as my cayuse wheeled—an' talk about turnin' on a saddle blanket—that jack rabbit can wheel on a postage stamp if he's prodded enough. He just simply climbed up straight an' swapped ends."
"You should 'a' gone back an' stalked that feller," said Big Tom, using plenty of salt on what he heard. "Or at least rustled to Gunsight to see who might come ridin' in. Where did all this happen?"
"Right on them benches on th' east end of th' mountain—at that rocky hump in th' trail. How he ever missed at such close range is more'n I can understand—why, a kid oughta be able to make a hit, every time, as close as that. An' it was a rifle; th' roar was deafenin'."
"He missed because he wanted to miss," said Big Tom. "One of th' boys is playin' a joke on you—you know what they've said about that tent. He come closer than he reckoned on—I'll bet you rocked forward in th' saddle as he shot."
"Yes, I reckon I did—you know what ridin' is over that hump," Smitty said. "I remember that when I jerked back as it passed my nose I went quite a ways—my neck is sore from th' jerk. But I'm tellin' you I ain't nowise shore it was any joke. An' I says, if it was, it was a cussed pore one. I'll nat'rally skin any fool I ketches playin' any more jokes like that on me. Cuss it, it skun my nose!"
"A skin fur a skin, huh?" chuckled the foreman. He handed the hat back to its owner. "There ain't no man on th' range that would miss yore head, hat or no hat, from them benches. It ain't more than seventy-five or eighty feet from up there. They aimed to miss you; an' they shaved it a little too fine, not allowin' for you bobbin' forward. I says it was one of th' boys. You lay low an' use yore eyes an' ears, an' if you find out who it was I'll give that fool a dressin' down he won't forget. A joke's a joke—we all play 'em; but there's such a thing as ridin' 'em too hard. Did you give th' Doc my message?"
"What message?"
The foreman stared at him and slowly raised his hands. "I'll be cussed—it was more of a joke than I thought. Didn't I tell you to ride up there an' tell th' Doc that we wanted to see him tonight? Didn't you leave here to tell him that, an' for nothin' else?" he demanded, his voice rising.