Now, with a great deal to think about, he was
not averse to a solitary day in the saddle.
Of late he had noted how the cinch of his working saddle was weakening;
some of the strands had parted even. He should mend it now, but he had
no time to lose, and he did have another saddle, which he did not use
twice during the year and which for months now he had not even seen. He
had put it out of the way, high up in the loft. He went down to the barn
meaning to get it and make the exchange. If he was going to have some
hard riding during the coming days it was as well if he used this
saddle, the best he had ever seen. Rather too ornate with its profuse
silver chasings and carved leather for every day's use, a heavy Mexican
affair which he had won in a bronco "busting" competition down in Texas
four years ago.
He came up into the loft, half filled with hay, and went to the far end
where the saddle had hung upon its peg. It was gone. He stood staring at
the peg in surprise. Surely he had left it here, surely he had not
removed it. He tried to think when he had seen it last. And he
remembered. It had been two or three months ago, and he knew that he had
left it here, he even remembered the trouble he had had in drawing it up
after him through the small trap door.
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