“Uh-huh. Well, I shore wondered about it. Seemed to me I remembered yuh did, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t like to say too much, but I’m plumb scared that somebody got color-blind early this mornin’.”
“What do yuh mean?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“C’mere and take a look.”
He led them farther down the stable, halting behind Sleepy’s sorrel gelding. On the left was an empty stall and on the right stood a rough-looking, dark bay horse, with one cropped ear and a hammer-head. It turned and looked at the men, an evil glint in its eyes.
“That’s where yore gray stood,” declared the stable-man. “I put yore broncs together. Early this mornin’ I heard somebody ride in and put up a horse. I didn’t git up. Folks usually take care of their own bronc at that time in the mornin’. But when I got up I didn’t find no extra horse in here, and when I went to feed ’em, I shore noticed that yore horse has turned color quite a bit.”
“That’s not my horse,” said Hashknife.
“Shore it ain’t. And it’s lame, too. Picked up a stone. I dug it out a while ago and filled the place with some axle-grease.”
“What’s the brand on it?”
“Half-Box R.”
“Who owns that brand?”