their pipes. It was Lonesome Pete who got his two quilts, rolled,
tied, and put them with the box of utensils. And then, making a
cigarette, he climbed to his seat.

"An' now if one of you gents figgers on ridin' along with me--"

"I do!" cried Hapgood, quickly. And he hastened to the buckboard,
taking his seat at the other's side.

"I thought you had a hoss somewheres! An' your saddle?" continued
Lonesome Pete.

"I thought that while you were getting your horses--Didn't you saddle
him?"

For a moment Lonesome Pete made no answer. He drew a deep breath as he
gathered in his reins tightly. And then he spoke very softly.

"Now, ain't I sure a forgetful ol' son of a gun! I did manage to
rec'lec' to make a fire an' git breakfas' an' hitch up my hosses an'
clean up after breakfas' an' put the beddin' in--but would you believe
I clean forgot to saddle up for you!"

He laughed as softly as he had spoken. Hapgood glanced at him quickly,
but the cowboy's face was lost in the black shadow of his low-drawn
hat. Hapgood got down and saddled his own horse, and it was Hapgood
who, riding with Lonesome Pete, led a stubborn animal that jerked back
until both of Hapgood's arms were sore in their sockets. Lonesome
Pete, the forgetful, remembered after an hour or two of quiet
enjoyment to tell the tenderfoot that he could tie the rope to the