ou climb down? I suppose
you've had breakfast?"

Patty swung from the saddle and stood holding the bridle reins. "Yes,
I've had breakfast, thank you. Don't let me keep you from yours."

"Had mine, too. If you don't mind I'll wash up these dishes, though.
Just drop your reins--like mine. Your cayuse will stand as long as the
reins are hangin'. It's the way they're broke--'tyin' 'em to the
ground,' we call it." He glanced at her horse's feet, and pointed to a
place beneath the fetlock from which the hair had been rubbed: "Rope
burnt," he opined. "You oughtn't to put him out on a picket rope. Use
hobbles. There's a couple of pair in your dad's war-bag."

"War-bag?"

"Yeh, it's down in Watts's barn, if he ain't hauled it up for you."

"What are hobbles?"

The man stepped to the tent and returned a moment later with two heavy
straps fastened together by a bit of chain and a swivel. "These are
hobbles, they work like this." He stooped and fastened the straps
about the forelegs of the horse just above the fetlock. "He can get
around all right, but he can't get far, and there is no rope to snag
him."

Patty nodded. "Thank you," she said. "I'll try it. But how do you know
there are hobbles in dad's pack?"

"Where would they be? He had a couple of pair. All his stuff is in
there. He always traveled light."

"Did you leave my father's war-bag, as you call it, at Watts's?"

"Yeh, he was in somethin' of a hurry and didn't want to go around by
the trail, so he left his outfit here and struck straight through the
hills."

"Why was he in a hurry?"

The man placed the dishes in a pan and poured water over them. "I've
got my good guess," he answered, thoughtfully.

"Which may mean anything, and tells me nothing."

Holland nodded, as he carefully wiped his tin plate. "Yeh, that's
about the size of it."

His attitude angered the girl. "And I have heard he was not the only
one in the hills that was in a hurry that day, and I suppose I can
have my 'good guess' at that, and I can have my 'good guess' as to who
cut daddy's pack sack, too."

"Yeh, an' you can change your guess as often as you want to."

"And every time I change it, I'd get farther from the truth."

"You might, an' you might get nearer." The cowpuncher was looking at
her squarely, now. "You ain't left-handed, are you?" he asked,
abruptly.

"No, of course not! Why?"

"Because, if you ain't, you better change that belt around so the
holster'll carry on