"Quit yore foolin', yu old cuss," he remarked pleasantly, as he
groped around behind him with his feet, searching for his boots.
"Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain't
yu ever goin' to grow up?"
"They've got our bronch," replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone.
Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu," he added for the sake of peace.
"Who has?" Came from the window, followed immediately by, "Yu've got
my boots!"
"I ain't-they're under th' bunk," contradicted and explained Mr.
Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, "I don't
know who's got them. If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with
myself?"
"Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that," came from the window,
accompanied by an overdone snicker.
Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the
varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything
but a pleasant state of mind.
Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend,
looking as serious as he could.
"Any tracks?" He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to
see for himself.
"Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there
for all I can see," growled Mr. Connors.
"I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack
an' find out what he knows," suggested Mr. Cassidy. "This looks too
good to be a swap.
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