“Where’s my cayuse?” yelled the puncher as he rounded the corner of the cañon wall on a peculiar lope and hop. “Where’s my cayuse, yu law-coyote?” he shouted, temporarily out of his senses from rage. “Where’s my cayuse!” dancing up to the sheriff and shaking both fists under the laughter-convulsed face.
When the sheriff could speak, he leaned against the cañon wall for support and broke the news.
“Why, Bill Howland said as how The Orphan was riding a Cross Bar-8 cayuse–dirty brown, with a white stocking on his near front foot. It had a big scar on its neck, too.”
“Th’ d––d hoss thief!” began the puncher, but Shields kept right on talking.
“There was a dandy Cheyenne saddle,” he said, counting on his fingers, “a good gun, a pair of hobbles and a big coil of rawhide rope on the cayuse. Was they yours?”
“Was they mine! Was they mine!” his companion screamed. “My new saddle gone, my gun gone and my fine rope gone! Oh, h–l! How’ll I hunt him now? How’ll I get home? How’ll I get back to th’ ranch?” Words failed him, and he could only wave his arms and yell.
“Well, it wouldn’t hardly be worth while chasing him on foot without a gun, that’s shore,” the sheriff said, grave once more. “But you can get home all right; that’s easy.”
“How can I?” asked the puncher, eyeing the sheriff’s horse and waiting for the invitation to ride double on it.
“Why, walk,” was the reply. “It’s only about twenty miles as the crow flies–say twenty-five on the trail.”
“Walk! Walk!” cried his companion, savagely kicking at a lizard which looked out from a crevice in the rock wall. “I never walked five miles all at once in my life!”