told him ungraciously, bristling with suspicion, watching him sharply, having already satisfied herself, as he could see, that he was unarmed.
"Oh, very well," said he, with a light stress on the "oh," giving it a care-free, indifferent, although somewhat lofty sound, as if to say such trifles as horses and their ownership were beneath him, and that he would not stoop to question a lady's word, let her be right or wrong.
Which was very much his mental state that moment. It was Coburn's business to prove his title to the horse, and no disinterested person would say the girl hadn't made her case so far. At least the horse had made it. The animal was looking at her with as loving expression as creature ever put into its eyes, following every movement she made, sticking to her as if it feared another separation. The horse had belonged there, no matter how it came to leave, and subsequent owners, honest or otherwise, would have to establish their claims and get possession of it without any help from him.
Simpson unsaddled the horse, his studious, serious face revealing nothing of his thoughts, which were galloping along at a pretty fair rate, in fact. While his chin was up in the soldierly way Sid Coburn had liked, his gray eyes had a shadow of perplexity in them, due to the double problem before him of getting Coburn's saddle, and the articles in the sack behind it, to the ranch and explaining the loss of the horse when he got there.
The relieved horse shook himself and began trampling around looking for a place to roll. Simpson stood just inside the gate holding the heavy saddle, wondering what next, running his eye over the place.
