"Where's your
horse?"
"You're Steve Packard, ain't you? You done Brocky a favor when you was
a kid, didn't you? Brocky told me. Brocky's done me a favor. I'm
doin' you a favor. That squares us up all 'round. Like a circle, all
in a ring, sort of; get me?"
"Yes," agreed Steve, feeling vaguely that the cowman had unknowingly
touched upon a problem in higher mathematics. He slipped a hand into
his pocket.
But the friend whom an old, long-forgotten kindness raised now for him
at his need, shook his head, would have none of Packard's money, and
led the way to a shed behind the saloon. Out of the darkness he
brought a tall, wall-eyed roan, quickly saddled and bridled and handed
over to Steve.
"Heeled?" came solicitously from the little man as Steve swung up into
the saddle.
"No."
"Well, Blenham is. He goes that way all the time. An' he's a right
good shot, the boys say. If there's some real sour blood stirred up
between him an' you there's no use bein' a plumb fool, is there? The
store's apt to be open yet; there's a firs'-class double-barrel
shot-gun, secon'-hand but as good as new, in the window. Only seven
dollars an' a half."
"I'll send the horse over to Brocky's to-morrow," called Steve. "And
as for being square--call on me at any time for the next favor. So
long."
"So long," responded the slow-voiced man.
Steve swung out toward the east, curbing his mount's eagerness,
settling himself in the saddle for a couple of hours of hard riding.
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