"You'd tag along, if--if you didn't have but one
leg to carry you! And I was going to--" He could not bring himself to
confess his meditated deed of mercy; it seemed black-hearted treachery,
now, and he stood ashamed and humbled before the dumb brute that nuzzled
him with such implicit faith.
It was slow journeying, after that. Ford carried the saddle on his own
back rather than burden the horse with it, and hungry as he was, he
stopped often and long, and massaged the sprained shoulder faithfully
while Rambler rested it, with all his weight on his other legs and his
nose rooting gently at Ford's bowed head.
A stray rider assured him that he was on the right trail, but it was
past noon when he thankfully reached the Double Cross, threw his saddle
down beside the stable door, and gave Rambler a chance at the hay in the
corral.
CHAPTER VII
The Foreman of the Double Cross
"Hell-o, Ford, where the blazes did you drop down from?" a welcoming
voice yelled, when he was closing the gate of the corral behind him and
thinking that it was like Ches Mason to have a fine, strong corral and
gate, and then slur the details by using a piece of baling wire to
fasten it.
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