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 Johnson's saddle when he slung it on the horse. He put his hand back to explore.

There was a roll, and a pretty good chunk of a roll, behind the saddle, done up in a slicker, to be sure. But it was not Waco Johnson's slicker; it was not Waco Johnson's roll. In the tangle of things while that shooting was going on, he had jumped the boss's horse and the boss had taken Waco Johnson's.

Not that it mattered, Simpson thought, since they were all heading for the same place. Only he remembered a package which the boss had handled tenderly all day, and put it into the sack with careful bestowal. It looked like a five-pound box of candy, going home to the missus. Simpson hoped he hadn't made a mess of it, which was about what had happened in that jouncing ride if they chanced to be chocolate creams. That was about what Sid Coburn would buy, at a dollar a pound, judging from the domestic look that lay back in his eyes.

Let it rain; the slicker should stay right where it was. He was neither sugar nor salt, nor chocolate creams; it was a cinch he wouldn't melt. Even though most of them must be squashed, some would come through whole, and as long as they were dry they'd be welcome at the ranch-house on the Medicine Lodge River, where the kids would lick the paper and save every smack of the oozing delicacy.

Simpson did not give the little brown bag which he had seen the boss carrying around much thought. He knew it was in the sack, and he had not a spark of curiosity about what it contained. Certainly if he had been put to it to