The legs of the horse were raw and red, and he seemed
about to drop. Ladd's sombrero was missing; he wore a bloody scarf
round his head; sweat and blood and dust had formed a crust on his
face; little streams of powdery dust slid from him; and the lower
half of his scarred chaps were full of broken white thorns.
"Howdy, boys," he drawled. "I shore am glad to see you all."
"Where'n hell's your hat?" demanded Belding, furiously. It was a
ridiculous greeting. But Belding's words signified little. The
dark shade of worry and solicitude crossing his face told more
than his black amaze.
The ranger stopped unbuckling the saddle girths, and, looking
at Belding, broke into his slow, cool laugh.
"Tom, you recollect that whopper of a saguaro up here where
Carter's trail branches off the main trail to Casita? Well, I
climbed it an' left my hat on top for a woodpecker's nest."
"You've been running--fighting?" queried Belding, as if Ladd had
not spoken at all.
"I reckon it'll dawn on you after a while," replied Ladd, slipping
the saddle.
"Laddy, go in the house to the women," said Belding. "I'll tend to
your horse."
"Shore, Tom, in a minute. I've been down the road. An' I found
hoss tracks an' steer tracks goin' across the line. But I seen no
sign of raiders till this mornin'. Slept at Carter's last night.
That raid the other day cleaned him out. He's shootin' mad. Well,
this mornin' I rode plumb into a bunch of Carter's hosses, runnin'
wild for home.
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