Freckles tried to think connectedly, but there were too many places on
the trail where the Angel's footprints were vet visible. She had stepped
in one mucky spot and left a sharp impression. The afternoon sun had
baked it hard, and the horses' hoofs had not obliterated any part of it,
as they had in so many places. Freckles stood fascinated, gazing at
it. He measured it lovingly with his eye. He would not have ventured a
caress on her hat any more than on her person, but this was different.
Surely a footprint on a trail might belong to anyone who found and
wanted it. He stooped under the wires and entered the swamp. With a
little searching, he found a big piece of thick bark loose on a log and
carefully peeling it, carried it out and covered the print so that the
first rain would not obliterate it.
When he reached his room, he tenderly laid the hat upon his bookshelf,
and to wear off his awkwardness, mounted his wheel and went spinning on
trail again. It was like flying, for the path was worn smooth with his
feet and baked hard with the sun almost all the way.
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