Mr. Coleman looked nonplussed.  “But I thought—­you said—­”

“What I said,” Andy retorted evenly, “hit the blue roan two years ago; maybe he’s reformed since then; I dunno.  Nobody’s rode him, here.”  He could not resist a sidelong glance at Happy Jack.  “There was some talk of it, but it never come to a head.”

“Yuh offered me a hundred dollars—­” Happy Jack began accusingly.

“And yuh never made no move to earn it, that I know of.  By gracious, yuh all seem to think I ought to mind-read that hoss!  I ain’t seen him for two years.  Maybe so, he’s a real wolf yet; maybe so, he’s a sheep.”  He threw out both his hands to point the end of the argument—­so far as he was concerned—­stuck them deep into his trousers’ pockets and walked away before he could be betrayed into deeper deceit.  It did seem to him rather hard that, merely because he had wanted the roan badly enough to—­er—­exercise a little diplomacy in order to get him, they should keep harping on the subject like that.  And to have Coleman making medicine to get the roan into that contest was, to say the least, sickening.  Andy’s private belief was that a twelve-year-old girl could go round up the milk-cows on that horse.  He had never known him to make a crooked move, and he had ridden beside him all one summer and had seen him in all places and under all possible conditions.  He was a dandy cow-horse, and dead gentle; all this talk made him tired.  Andy had forgotten that he himself had started the talk.

Coleman went often to the corral when the horses were in, and looked at the blue roan.  Later he rode on to other ranches where he had heard were bad horses, and left the roan for further consideration.  When he was gone, Andy breathed freer and put his mind to the coming contest and the things he meant to do with the purse and with the other contestants.

“That Diamond G twister is going t’ ride,” Happy Jack announced, one day when he came from town.  “Some uh the boys was in town and they said so.  He can ride, too.  I betche Andy don’t have no picnic gitting the purse away from that feller.  And Coleman’s got that sorrel outlaw uh the HS.  I betche Andy’ll have to pull leather on that one.”  This was, of course, treason pure and simple; but Happy Jack’s prophecies were never taken seriously.

Andy simply grinned at him.  “Put your money on the Diamond G twister,” he advised calmly.  “I know him—­he’s a good rider, too.  His name’s Billy Roberts.  Uh course, I aim to beat him to it, but Happy never does like to have a sure-thing.  He wants something to hang his jaw down over.  Put your money on Billy and watch it fade away, Happy.”

“Aw, gwan.  I betche that there sorrel—­”

“I rode that there sorrel once, and combed his forelock with both spurs alternate,” Andy lied boldly.  “He’s pickings.  Take him back and bring me a real hoss.”

Happy Jack wavered.  “Well, I betche yuh don’t pull down that money,” he predicted vaguely.  “I betche yuh git throwed, or something.  It don’t do to be too blame sure uh nothing.”