It was a joke that Sid Coburn would not hear the end of for many a hilarious day.
"You can't steal no horse of mine and git away with it!" Coburn blustered foolishly, put to it hard to save his own face before that ribald witness from the seat of scoffing Drumwell, the debauched.
Simpson stepped quickly up to the cowman when he made that fighting remark, so close his eyelashes almost brushed his face.
"When you talk that way, talk low!" he said.
Coburn dropped his hand to his gun, white to the gills. He felt iron in his ribs before he had snaked the gun an inch. Simpson relieved him of it with deftness that told of considerable practice at that art.
"Throw a saddle on that horse, and be damn quick about it!" Simpson ordered, his words so cold and hard that the threat behind them struck even the driver, sending a little crinkle of chill along his backbone.
Coburn wisely realized that the place for words had passed and he had been too careless with them while he had his chance. He headed for one of the sheds, Simpson tight at his heels taking no risk of a gun that might be hanging around. The cowman reached in from the door and grabbed a saddle and blanket at random, it appeared, and quickly completed his enforced job.
Simpson broke the gun he had taken from Coburn, throwing out the charge, swung into the saddle, looked hard at the ungenerous cowman, and said:
"I'll not promise to return this saddle, Coburn, but you'll find it at the Ellison ranch when you come after your horse."
