"It's no mistake—he's my horse, this is his home. I raised him from a colt, he's my horse!"
"I don't understand a bit of it," Simpson declared in honest bewilderment, "but I thought he was blood—bloomin' keen for a tired nag the last two or three miles."
"He's no nag!" she corrected him indignantly. "He's a blood-horse, he's a Hambletonian. I raised him from a colt and they stole him—they stole him!"
"The devil!" said Simpson. "Does he carry your brand?"
"I never would have him branded, except on the hoof, and that's grown out. Oh, but they did!" she said, following Simpson's eyes to the animal's left shoulder, a pang in her tone as if the iron had touched her own flesh.
"I noticed it," he said, "but didn't look for another brand. How long since you lost him?"
"About four months."
"Yes, that's a new brand," he said thoughtfully. "No doubt Coburn was an innocent purchaser?"
"Innocent! He knew it was my horse."
"Awkward for me," Simpson cogitated.
The girl was busy with the throatlatch of the bridle, which she stripped from the horse's head and threw to the ground.
"Get that saddle off, and be quick about it, mister!" she ordered him harshly.
"Dev-lish awkward for me!" Simpson muttered, making no start to carry out her command. "How far is it to Coburn's place, if you don't mind?"
"Twenty-five or thirty miles southwest of here," she
