In the first place, he had been a week on the trail, and estimating his
pace conservatively, that time should bring him within easy riding
distance of the place he had set out to seek. There were so many miles
to be covered in so many days, and Streak was a prince of steady
travelers.
Besides, yesterday at dusk, Sanderson had passed through Las Vegas.
Careful inquiry in the latter town had brought forth the intelligence
that the Double A was a hundred and seventy-five miles northeastward.
"Country's short of cow-hands," said Sanderson's informer. "If you're
needin' work, an' forty a month looks good to you, why, I'd admire to
take you on. I'm German, of the Flyin' U, down the Cimarron a piece."
"Me an' work has disagreed," grinned Sanderson; and he rode on,
meditating humorously over the lie.
Work and Sanderson had never disagreed. Indeed, Sanderson had always
been convinced that work and he had agreed too well in the past.
Except for the few brief holidays that are the inevitable portion of
the average puncher who is human enough to yearn for the relaxation of
a trip to "town" once or twice a year, Sanderson and work had been
inseparable for half a dozen years.
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