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Evidently all the border hawks were in at the picking of Casita. The February nights were cold, with a dry, icy, penetrating coldness that made a warm fire most comfortable. Belding's household usually congregated in the sitting-room, where burning mesquite logs crackled in the open fireplace. Belding's one passion besides horses was the game of checkers, and he was always wanting to play.
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?
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