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"What didn’t would be more like it, amigo. Yesterday, well, they got m’ hoss—tried to git me. Only left their mark, though," Anse said, regarding his arm ruefully. "I’ve been wearin’ off boot heels hoofin’ it ever since. Tryin’ to make it back to that there water hole." "Who shot your horse?" "I didn’t see no name printed big ’cross his jacket, but I’m thinkin’ it was Shannon."
"That don't make no difference. Those wus my orders not to talk, nor let enybody hang 'round except you folks." "Then we were expected?" in surprise. "Sure; I reckon yer 'd a been hoofin' it up the road long afore this otherwise. Still, I dunno," with a suggestive wink, "I 've got a likin' fer pretty girls."
"Must a took it into the shack with 'm!" Another one laughed rather loudly. Too loudly for a thief who did not feel perfectly secure in his thieving. "Betcher we c'ud taken his saddle hoss out the pen an' ride 'im off, and he wouldn't miss 'im till he jest happened to look down and see where his boots was wore through the bottom hoofin' it!" continued the speaker contentedly.
"I used to follow a walking cultivator across an eighty-acre cornfield," the traveler replied. "Yes, that'll stretch a feller's legs," the bone man admitted, reminiscently. "Nothing like follerin' a plow to give a man legs and wind. But they don't mostly walk around in this country; they kind of suspicion a man when they see him hoofin' it."
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