Racey Dawson was too reduced in spirit to properly take umbrage at this insult to his horse.  He could only repeat his request that Piney make not of himself a bigger fool than usual.  And when Piney did nothing but laugh immoderately, Racey grinned foolishly.

“If my head didn’t ache so hard,” he assured the chortling blacksmith, “I’d shore talk to you, but—­Say, lookit here, Piney, quit yore foolin’, will you?  Who owns this hoss, anyway?”

“Here comes Kansas,” said Piney.  “Betcha five even he arrests you for a hoss thief.”

“Gimme odds an’ I’ll go you,” Racey returned, promptly.

“Even,” stuck out Piney.

“Naw, he might do it.  You Farewell jiggers hang together too hard for me to take any chances.  ’Lo, Kansas.”

“Howdy, Racey,” nodded Kansas Casey, the deputy sheriff.  “How long you been rustlin’ hosses?”

“A damsight longer’n I like,” Racey replied, frankly.  “Who does own this hoss?”

“Y’ oughta asked that question yesterday,” said Kansas, severely, but with a twinkle in his black eyes that belied his tone.  “This here would be mighty serious business for you if the Sheriff was in town.  Jake’s so particular about being legal an’ all.  Yessir, Racey, old-timer, I expect you’d spend some time in the calaboose—­if you wasn’t lynched previous.”

“Don’t scare the poor feller,” pleaded Piney in a tone of deepest compassion.  “He’ll be cryin’ in a minute.”

“In a minute I’ll be doing somethin’ besides cry if you fellers don’t stop yore funning.  This here is past a joke, this is, and—­”

“Shore it’s past a joke,” Kansas concurred, warmly, “an’ I ain’t funning, not for a minute.  You go give that hoss back, Racey, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Well, for Gawd’s sake tell me who to give it back to!” bawled Racey, and immediately batted his eyes and gingerly patted the back of his head.

“Head ache?” queried Kansas.  “I expect it might after last night.  You go give that hoss back like a good boy.”

So saying Kansas Casey turned his back and retreated rapidly in the direction of the Starlight Saloon.

Racey Dawson glared vindictively after the departing deputy.  Then he switched his angry blue eyes to the blacksmith’s smiling countenance.

“You can all,” said Racey Dawson, distinctly, “go plumb to hell.”

He turned the purloined pony on a dime and loped up the street, followed by the ribald laughter of Piney Jackson.

“They think they’re so terrible funny,” Racey muttered, mournfully, as he dismounted and tied at the hitching rail in front of the Happy Heart.  “Now if I can only find Swing—­”

But Swing Tunstall, it appeared on consulting the bartender, had gone off hunting him (Racey).  The latter did not appeal to the bartender to divulge the name of the horse’s owner.  He had, he believed, furnished the local populace sufficient amusement for one day.  He had a small drink, for he felt that he needed a bracer, and with the liquor he imbibed inspiration.