With this slight dig of his civilian independence into the lieutenant's
military ribs, the scout walked away, his long, lugubrious frockcoat
(worn in honor of the mess) occasionally flapping open in the breeze, and
giving a view of a belt richly fluted with cartridges, and the ivory
handle of a pistol looking out of its holster. He got on his horse,
crossed the flat, and struck out for the cabin of his sociable friends,
Loomis and Kelley, on the hill. The open door and a light inside showed
the company, and Cutler gave a grunt, for sitting on the table was the
half-breed, the winner of his unavenged dollars. He rode slower, in order
to think, and arriving at the corral below the cabin, tied his horse to
the stump of a cottonwood. A few steps towards the door, and he wheeled
on a sudden thought, and under cover of the night did a crafty something
which to the pony was altogether unaccountable. He unloosed both front
and rear cinch of his saddle, so they hung entirely free in wide bands
beneath the pony's belly. He tested their slackness with his hand several
times, stopping instantly when the more and more surprised pony turned
his head to see what new thing in his experience might be going on, and,
seeing, gave a delicate bounce with his hind-quarters.

"Never you mind, Duster," muttered the scout. "Did you ever see a
skunk-trap? Oughts is for mush-rats, and number ones is mostly used for
'coons and 'possums, and I guess they'd do for a skunk. But you and we'll
call this here trap a number two, Duster, for the skunk I'm after is a
big one. All you've to do is to act natural."

Cutler took the rope off the stump by which Duster had been tied
securely, wound and strapped it to the tilted saddle, and instead of this
former tether, made a weak knot in the reins, and tossed them over the
stump. He entered the cabin with a countenance sweeter than honey.