“I see. The coyotes stole your cutlets, and you were hungry,” she bantered, as she came alongside and whirled her horse around to ride with him down the creek.
“How did you guess?” he asked.
“I know coyotes,” she replied. “They’re the worst––” She stopped short, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. “Oh, Mr. Ashton! how could you? I did not think you so cruel!”
“Cruel?” he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. “Ah, you refer to the spurring. But I simply couldn’t help it, you know. There was a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge back there.”
“A bandit––on Dry Mesa?” she incredulously exclaimed.
“Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times.” 58
The girl smiled. “You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at a coyote.”
“No,” he insisted, flushing under her look. “The ruffian was shooting at me. See here.”
He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had been torn out. From it he drew his brandy flask.
“That was done by the third or fourth shot,” he explained. “Do you wonder I was flat on my pony’s neck and spurring as hard as I could?”