He had a circus with her, but he busted her right enough.
When it comes to horse, Delaney can wipe the eye of any cow-puncher in
the county, I guess."

"He can, can he?" observed Annixter. Then after a silence, "Well, all
right, Billy; put my saddle on whatever you've got here. I'm going over
to Los Muertos this afternoon."

"Want to look out for the rain, Mr. Annixter," remarked Billy. "Guess
we'll have rain before night."

"I'll take a rubber coat," answered Annixter. "Bring the horse up to the
ranch house when you're ready."

Annixter returned to the house to look for his rubber coat in deep
disgust, not permitting himself to glance toward the dairy-house and
the Trees' cottage. But as he reached the porch he heard the telephone
ringing his call. It was Presley, who rang up from Los Muertos. He had
heard from Harran that Annixter was, perhaps, coming over that evening.
If he came, would he mind bringing over his--Presley's--bicycle. He had
left it at the Quien Sabe ranch the day before and had forgotten to come
back that way for it.

"Well," objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice, "I WAS going to
RIDE over." "Oh, never mind, then," returned Presley easily. "I was to
blame for forgetting it. Don't bother about it. I'll come over some of
these days and get it myself."

Annixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement wrench and stamped out
of the room, banging the door. He found his rubber coat hanging in the
hallway and swung into it with a fierce movement of the shoulders that
all but started the seams. Everything seemed to conspire to thwart him.
It was just like that absent-minded, crazy poet, Presley, to forget his
wheel. Well, he could come after it himself. He, Annixter, would ride
SOME horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he saw the wheel
leaning against the fence where Presley had left it. If it stayed there
much longer the rain would catch it. Annixter ripped out an oath. At
every moment his ill-humour was increasing. Yet, for all that, he went
back to the stable, pushing the bicycle before him, and countermanded
his order, directing the stableman to get the buggy ready. He himself
carefully stowed Presley's bicycle under the seat, covering it with a
couple of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover.

While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an exclamation and paused
in the act of backing the horse into the shafts, holding up a hand,
listening.

From the hollow roof of the b