tone. "Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu," he added for the sake of peace.
"Who has?" came from the window, followed immediately by, "Yu've got my boots!"
"I ain't—they're under th' bunk," contradicted and explained Mr. Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, "I don't know who's got them. If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with myself?"
"Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that," came from the window, accompanied by an overdone snicker.
Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied pleasures of Santa Fé, and he regarded the bronchos in anything but a pleasant state of mind. Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as serious as he could.
"Any tracks?" he inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for himself.
"Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can see," growled Mr. Connors.
"I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack an' find out what he knows," suggested Mr. Cassidy. "This looks too good to be a swap."
Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him. "Mebby they was hard pushed an' wanted fresh cayuses," he said. "A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we'll prospect th' boss."
They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord's room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.
"Much trade?" he inquired solicitously.
"Yep," replied the landlord.
