“You tryin’ to make out that I stole yore bronc, Slade?”
“If I thought yuh did I’d fill yuh so ed full of holes that they’d have to use ce-ment instead of embalmin’-fluid, if they wanted yuh to keep.”
“Yeah, I s’pose,” Ike sneered openly, but was careful to keep his hands above waist-level. He was the equal of any man on the draw, but he was afraid of this big man—afraid that he might not be able to stop him.
“Don’t argue with that worm,” said Harp impatiently. “He ain’t goin’ to take any chances. Now, if it was dark and he had a tree or a rock in front of him—aw, c’mon, Silent.”
They went out through the doorway, leaving Ike to swear and buy himself a drink. At the hitch-rack they examined the saddle. There was no doubt of it being a bullet-hole. The saddle was a cheap affair, and the bullet had smashed through the cantle, but was lodged between the wood and the leather covering of the back.
With a slash of his knife Brick cut through the leather and salvaged the bullet, which was so badly battered that it was impossible, except by weight, to tell what caliber it had been.
“Well,” said Grant dryly, “there ain’t much question about it bein’ a bullet-hole.”
“Yeah, it is a bullet-hole,” admitted Leach, although he did not seem greatly concerned over it.
“Well, I don’t know anything about it.” Meecham was inclined to be a trifle peevish over it. “I hired this horse and saddle to ride up here and see how Mr. Caswell was getting along, and if they gave me a saddle with a bullet-hole in it”
“Well, that’s all right,” grinned Brick. “Nobody’s blamin’ you for it, Meecham.”