He simply took saddle and bridle off the gray mustang and then walked beside it carrying the paraphernalia. On that side of the camp stalked the lengthy form of “Crane” Bushwick. He stopped long enough to whistle softly to the mustang, and then to laugh as the horse came edging on, worked along by the nudging elbows of Naylor, who walked bent over on the farther side. Crane Bushwick went on with his beat, humming softly to himself, paying no heed, for a number of the horses had been turned loose to graze beyond the trees which sheltered the camp. And as the gray mustang walked ahead, Naylor was presently in the safe sanctuary of the pines. There, in a small clearing, he hobbled the gray as most of the other horses were hobbled, and he paused long enough to rub down the mustang with bunches of pine needles. For if there were an examination, he did not wish the horse to show the encrusted sweat that is always present after a long and hard ride. Finally, there was the move to get to his blankets.
