It was for that reason Henry had to do a doubletake when he saw a heavyset man in shorts, t-shirt and tennis shoes, a camera draped around his neck, over in the mounting area getting ready to climb on a horse that was wearing Henry’s saddle. Jim was standing next to the man ready to help him get in the saddle. It had been rare in the past seventeen years that Henry had gotten angry at anything or anybody but himself. But knowing that someone had not only touched his saddle without permission, but then had put it on a horse and was getting ready to let a stranger use it, lit a fuse in him that had been extinguished for a very long time. He covered the seventy-five yards from where he’d been standing to the mounting area in seconds. He reached out and grabbed the heavy man’s ankle just as his toe was about to reach the stirrup, and jerked it away.

“Hey,” the man grunted, losing his balance and falling slightly backward.

Henry’s abrupt appearance caused a surprised Jim to step back as well. “Henry,” he said, shock apparent in his voice. “What are you doing?”

Henry didn’t acknowledge his presence. He flipped the stirrup leather up over the seat of the saddle and quickly untied the T-knot, which secured the latigo to the cinch and held the saddle to the horse’s back. He undid the back cinch in one effortless flip, reached under, unsecured the heavy trigger snap holding the bottom strap of the breast collar to the cinch, and the nearside strap of the breast collar to the ring on the saddle a few inches down from the saddle horn. In less than five seconds since he’d shown up on the scene, the saddle was loose, and in one smooth movement, Henry jerked it from the horse’s back, turned and started for the bunkhouse. Jim grabbed Henry by the arm.

“Henry,” he blurted. “We need that sad…”

Jim stopped in mid sentence when he saw the look on Henry’s face as Henry snapped around to look at him. The anger in his glare was so visceral, it was as if electricity shot through Jim’s body, and he immediately released his grip on Henry’s arm and stepped back. Henry turned without a word and continued toward the bunkhouse.

“Hey,” the heavyset man exclaimed. “What’s going on? How am I supposed to ride without a saddle?”

“Just a minute, sir,” Jim smiled. “We’ll get all this straightened out in a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Jim quickly followed Henry, making sure not to touch him this time. “Henry, we’re overbooked this afternoon, and could really use that saddle.”

“You or anybody else on this place touch this saddle again,” there was an ominous growl in Henry’s voice, “I’ll cut your hands off and send them to your mother.” It was clear to Jim at that point the conversation was over.

Several of the wranglers would go into the bunkhouse later that afternoon to get a cup of coffee, or grab a jacket, or pick up something they forgot and see Henry’s saddle sitting on his bunk just inside the door. On it, in big bold letters scribbled on a piece of paper was a note that read simply: TOUCH THIS SADDLE = WORST DAY OF YOUR LIFE! Nobody did.