In the very eyes of the little party hastening toward
him--three young girls and a brace of subalterns--he read question and
cross-question, and was thankful to see Hay, the trader, trudging up the
walk to join him. So seldom did the old frontiersman enter the
quadrangle that people remarked upon his coming;--remarked still more
when Webb hurried down to meet him.
"You're right about the horses, major," said Hay, mopping a moist and
troubled face with a big bandana. "My racer and my best single footer,
Dan, were out last night. Dan's saddle cloth was wet and so was
Harney's. Some one outside has got false keys,--I'll put new padlocks on
at once,--but for the life of me I can't think who would play me such a
trick. To _steal_ the horses,--run 'em off to Rawlins or up the
Sweetwater or off to the Hills--I could understand that! but to borrow
them for an hour or two,--why, it beats me hollow!" And Hay in deep
perplexity leaned against the low fence and almost imploringly gazed
into the major's face. They all leaned on Webb.
"Any idea who they were?" asked the commander.
"Not the skin of a shadow, 'cept that one man rode shorter stirrups'n I
do. They forgot to set 'em back. They had my California saddle on Dan
and that light Whitman of mine on Harney.
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