"Yes, but there wasn't any real actual proof about the horse—only some tracks in Simon's corral that Walton thought he recognized."
Tip quirked a quizzical mouth. "Between us, Rafe, what did Simon do with the horse?"
"Sold him to a prospector who was leaving the country. So it couldn't be traced."
"Good horse was it?"
"It was that chestnut young Hazel rides."
"Hazel's own pony? Lord! Man alive, Simon is worse'n a polecat. He's a whole family of them. Why couldn't he have rustled some other horse?"
"I ain't Simon, so I can't tell you," said Rafe dryly. "But if you don't want anything done on Simon's account, how about this: yesterday one of my boys was shot at while he happened to be doing a li'l business on the Walton range."
"What did your boy happen to be doing?" smiled Tip.
Rafe attempted to excuse himself and his cowboy. "It was a long-ear."
"Branding it on the Walton range?"