"The
Sawtooth would hate to lose you; you're a good man."
"Oh, I get yuh," Al retorted. "My foot ain't going to slip---- If it
did, the Sawtooth would be the first to pile onto my back!" The last
sentence was not meant for the senator's ears. Al had backed his horse,
and Senator Warfield was stepping on the starter. But it would not have
mattered greatly if he had heard, for this was a point quite thoroughly
understood by them both.
The Warfield car went on, lurching over the inequalities of the narrow
road. Al shook his horse into a shambling trot, picking his way
carelessly through the scattered sage.
His horse traveled easily, now and then lifting a foot high to avoid
rock or exposed root, or swerving sharply around obstacles too high to
step over. Al very seldom traveled along the beaten trails, though there
was nothing to deter him now save an inherent tendency toward
secretiveness of his motives, destinations and whereabouts. If the
country was open, you would see Al Woodruff riding at some distance from
the trail--or you would not see him at all, if there were gullies in
which he could conceal himself.
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