Lone did not ask
whose saddle it was, nor did Swan name the owner. There was no need.
Swan took the saddle and swung it around so that the right side was
toward them. It was what is called a full-stamped saddle, with the
popular wild-rose design on skirts and cantle. Much hard use and
occasional oilings had darkened the leather to a rich, red brown, marred
with old scars and scratches and the stains of many storms.
"Blood is hard to find when it's raining all night," Swan observed,
speaking low as one does in the presence of death. "But if somebody is
bleeding and falls off a horse slow, and catches hold of things and
tries like hell to hang on----" He lifted the small flap that covered
the cinch ring and revealed a reddish, flaked stain. Phlegmatically he
wetted his finger tip on his tongue, rubbed the stain and held up his
finger for Lone to see. "That's a damn funny place for blood, when a man
is dragging on the ground," he commented drily. "And something else is
damn funny, Lone."
He lifted the wooden stirrup and touched with his finger the rowel
marks. "That is on the front part," he said.
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