The heat was oppressive, and de Spain unbuckled his cartridge-belt, slipped his revolver from the holster, mechanically stuck it inside his trousers waistband, hung the heavy belt up under his coat, and, sitting down, called for the stage report and asked whether the new blacksmith had sobered up. When McAlpin had given him all minor information called for, de Spain walked with him out into the barn to inspect the 115 horses. Passing the very last of the box-stalls, the manager saw in it a pony. He stopped. No second glance was needed to tell him it was a good horse; then he realized that this wiry, sleek-legged roan, contentedly munching at the moment some company hay, was Nan Morgan’s.
McAlpin, talking volubly, essayed to move on, but de Spain, stubbornly pausing, only continued to look at the handsome saddle-horse. McAlpin saw he was in for it, and resigned himself to an inquisition. When de Spain asked whose horse it was, McAlpin was ready. “That little pony is Nan Morgan’s, sir.”
De Spain made no comment. “Good-looking pony, sir,” ventured McAlpin half-heartedly.
“What’s it doing here?” demanded de Spain coldly.
Before answering, the barn boss eyed de Spain very carefully to see how the wind was setting, for the pony’s presence confessed an infraction of a very particular rule. “You see,” he began, cocking at his strict boss from below his visorless cap a questioning Scotch eye, “I like to keep on good terms with that gang. Some of them can be very ugly. It’s better to be friends with them when you can––by stretching the barn rules a little once in a while––than to have enemies of ’em all the time––don’t you think so, sir?”
“What’s her horse doing here?” asked de Spain, without commenting on the long story, but also without showing, as far as the barnman could detect, any growing resentment at the infraction of his regulations.
McAlpin made even the most inconsequential approaches to a statement with a keen and questioning glance. “The girl went up to the Cat on the early stage, sir. She’s coming back this afternoon.”
“What is she riding away over here to Calabasas for to take the stage, instead of riding straight into Sleepy Cat?”
Once more McAlpin eyed him carefully. “The girl’s been sick.”