the free end of the strap, one knee pushing against the animal’s side.  The “fat” disappeared and Hopalong laughed.  “Been learnin’ new tricks, ain’t you?  Got smart since you been travellin’, hey?” He fumbled with the bars again and got two of them back in place and then, throwing himself across the saddle as the horse started forward as hard as it could go, slipped off, but managed to save himself by hopping along the ground.  As soon as he had secured the grip he wished he mounted with the ease of habit and felt for the reins.  “G’wan now, an’ easy—­it’s plumb dark an’ my head’s bustin’.”

When he saddled his mount at the corral he was not aware that two of the three remaining horses had taken advantage of their opportunity and had walked out and made off in the darkness before he replaced the bars, and he was too drunk to care if he had known it.

The night air felt so good that it moved him to song, but it was not long before the words faltered more and more and soon ceased altogether and a subdued snore rasped from him.  He awakened from time to time, but only for a moment, for he was tired and sleepy.

His mount very quickly learned that something was wrong and that it was being given its head.  As long as it could go where it pleased it could do nothing better than head for home, and it quickened its pace towards Winchester.  Some time after daylight it pricked up its ears and broke into a canter, which soon developed signs of irritation in its rider.  Finally Hopalong opened his heavy eyes and looked around for his bearings.  Not knowing where he was and too tired and miserable to give much thought to a matter of such slight importance, he glanced around for a place to finish his sleep.  A tree some distance ahead of him looked inviting and towards it he rode.  Habit made him picket the horse before he lay down and as he fell asleep he had vague recollections of handling a strange picket rope some time recently.  The horse slowly turned and stared at the already snoring figure, glanced over the landscape, back the to queerest man it had ever met, and then fell to grazing in quiet content.  A slinking coyote topped a rise a short distance away and stopped instantly, regarding the sleeping man with grave curiosity and strong suspicion.  Deciding that there was nothing good to eat in that vicinity and that the man was carrying out a fell plot for the death of coyotes, it backed away out of sight and loped on to other hunting grounds.

CHAPTER XII

A FRIEND IN NEED

Stevenson, having started the fire for breakfast, took a pail and departed towards the spring; but he got no farther than the corral gate, where he dropped the pail and stared.  There was only one horse in the enclosure where the night before there had been four.  He wasted no time in surmises, but wheeled and dashed back towards the hotel, and his vigorous shouts brought Old John to the door, sleepy and peevish.  Old John’s mouth dropped open as he beheld his habitually indolent host marking off long distances on the sand with each falling foot.