“This is a bad place to go wandering around in your stocking feet,” he suggested.
“I left my boots down the valley,” Slim explained. “Figured that in my stocking feet I could creep up on the two fellows who were trying to bushwhack you. They got away from me and stole my horse.”
“What!” exploded Chuck, quick anger darkening his face.
“While I was playing good Samaritan, those fellows doubled around behind me and made away with my horse.”
“That’s tough. Means we’re both on foot, for my old cayuse will never buck again.”
“Standing here won’t get us any place. Let’s get my boots.”
Slim picked up his rifle and led the way over the rocky ground. Every step pained him and there was little left of his socks when he finally reached the huge boulder where he had cached his boots.
He sat down and stripped off his socks, rubbing his aching feet with his hands.
“I’ve got a change of socks in my blanket roll,” said Chuck. “I’ll slide over and get my stuff.”
Slim massaged the soles of his feet until Chuck returned with his bedroll. The cowboy from the Circle Four unrolled it and brought out a pair of heavy, serviceable socks.