Selwood took plenty of time, patting a shoulder here, stroking a nose there, and finally stepped in between a big brown mare and the rangy grey gelding which Sud Provine always rode. He fondled the animal for a few moments, then ran his hand down the left foreleg and picked up the hoof. It was shod, saddle-horse fashion. He placed the foot between his knees, very much after the manner of a blacksmith, and taking a small coarse file from his coat pocket, proceeded to file a small notch in the shoe.
Then he put the file away, gave the grey a last friendly slap, got his own horse and rode away.
He intended to have a good night’s sleep.
Several days later Kate Cathrew came down to Cordova and held a short private conversation with McKane.
“McKane,” she said, “who gives you the heaviest trade in this man’s country?”
“You do,” said McKane promptly, “far and away.”
“Do you value it?”
“Does a duck swim?”
“Then give me a moment’s attention,” said Kate Cathrew, “and keep what I say under your hat.”
“I’m like the well that old saw tells of—the stone sinks and is never seen again. Confession in the heart of a friend, you know.”