He took it with him."
"My four thousand," said Sanderson, shortly.
"Yours?" Owen paled.
"Dale lifted my money belt," Sanderson returned. "I was wondering what
he did with it. So that's what."
He relapsed into a grim silence, and Owen did not speak again.
They rode several miles in that fashion--Owen keeping his horse
slightly behind Sanderson's, his gaze on the other's face, his own
white with remorse and anxiety.
At last he heard Sanderson laugh, and the sound of it made him grit his
teeth in impotent agony.
"Sanderson," he said, gulping, "I'm sorry."
"Sure," returned the other. "If I hadn't wised up to that quite a
spell ago, you'd be back on the trail, waitin' for some coyote to come
along an' get his supper."
They rode in silence for a long time. They came to the gentle slope of
the basin and began to climb it.
A dozen times Owen rode close to Sanderson, his lips trembling over
unuttered words, but each time he dropped back without speaking. His
eyes, fixed worshipfully on the back of the big, silent man ahead of
him, were glowing with anxiety and wonder.
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