"All right. But remember; neither of you owns the horse you are trading."
"But we're goin' to," asserted Lorry.
Waring reached beneath his coat and unbuckled a heavy belt. From buckle to tongue it glittered with cartridges and a service-worn holster bulged with a short-barreled Colt's .45. He handed the belt to Lorry.
"It's a good gun," he said, "and I hope you'll never need to use it."
Lorry stammered his thanks, untied Dex, and gave the reins into Waring's hand. "The trade goes," he said. "But we change saddles."
"Correct," said Waring. "And here's a letter—from your mother."
Lorry slid the letter in his shirt. "How's the Weston folks?"
"They were to leave this morning. Mrs. Weston asked me to pay you for repairing their machine. She gave me the money."
"You can keep it. I wasn't workin' for pay."
"All right. Going to stay down here awhile?"