He too was studying Carver’s apparel.
“This fellow’s not dressed the same,” he admitted. “But the horse looks like the one he was up on.”
“It’s the selfsame horse he was straddling,” said Carver. “He’s got a better one under him now.”
“Did you trade?” the sheriff demanded.
“No, he did,” said Carver.
“Speak up! Get it out quick,” the officer ordered.
“I was off prospecting around on foot,” Carver explained. “As I sauntered back I observed this crow-bait standing where my horse had been. I caught one brief glimpse of a black hat through the grass on a ridge and knew that the party under it was making off with my horse. I crawled this old wreck and took in behind him. Never did see him again—which isn’t surprising in view of the fact that he’s up in the middle of the best horse in three States. That was one good horse of mine. I’ll back him against any mount in these parts. That miscreant made a good trade. One time during round-up last summer that pony packed me seventy miles in one day and wasn’t even breathing hard.”
“Oh, damn your horse and its virtues,” the sheriff interrupted. “We’ll take you along, anyway. How do I know you wasn’t planted out here to help him make a get-away?”
“You don’t,” Carver admitted. “For all you know, why he might have sent me word about whatever misdeed he was planning, stating the exact spot where your posse would jump him and outlining his route of escape from there on, so’s I could be posted just where his horse would play out and he’d be needing a fresh one.”
The officer frowned at this absurd line of deduction and Carver grinned at his discomfiture. The three additional members of the posse, having ridden well off toward the left, had now sighted the group on the ridge and were approaching the spot.