“Yes.”
“Well, she’s more than made amends. In spite of her temper, that mare of mine was the finest thing on the ranch.”
“Yours?” Fyles raised his eyebrows.
“Well—Marbolt’s.”
But the officer shook his head. “Nor Marbolt’s. She belonged to me. Three years ago I turned her out to graze at Whitewater with a bunch of others, as an incorrigible rogue and vagabond. The whole lot were stolen and one of the guard shot. Her name was ‘Strike ’em.’”
“Strike ’em?”
“Yes. Ever have her come at you with both front feet, and her mouth open?”
Tresler nodded.
“That’s it. ‘Strike ’em.’ Fine mare—half blood.”
“But Marbolt told Jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit.”