“Ther what?”

“Ther laugh.”

“Go ahead, podner, yer shore hez a splendid education.”

“I see thet he’ll never git ter whar he’s goin’ on ther nag, an’ I thinks I’ll do him a favor by sittin’ him on a piece o’ live hossmeat, an’ I said I’d trade if he hed anythin’ ter boot.  Now, what do yer think he hed?”

“I ain’t got a notion.”

“A pack o’ Mexican cigareets what burned like a bresh fire an’ smelled like a wet dog under a stove.”

“Haw, haw!  An’ yer traded?”

“I thought some fust, an’ then I thinks what’s ther odds?  Thar’s plenty o’ hosses in camp, an’ it’ll probably save ther feller’s life ter let him hev ther pony, what ain’t none out o’ ther common, so I says, ’It’s a go, pard.’  I clumb down an’ we changed saddles, an’ he handed over ther pack o’ cigareets an’ we went our ways.”

“Yer shore is a kind-hearted man.”

“I ain’t, neither.  I jest knows a hoss when I sees one.”

“Yer don’t call thet a hoss yer a-straddlin’, I hope?”

“I shore do.  He ain’t much fer ter gaze on admirin’, I agree, but he’s a good little cayuse.  I reckon, now, yer some proud o’ thet magpie hoss.”

“I be.  It kin outrun anythin’ this side o’ ther State o’ Newbrasky.”

“P’r’aps yer lookin’ fer a race ter see what ther best we’ve got in camp kin do, no?”

“Thar ain’t nary time what I won’t run a race if I think thar’s ary merit in my hossflesh.  How erbout ther animile what yer sits on so graceful?”

“Oh, I reckon he kin ride rings eround ther magpie hoss,” said Bud, who was a trifle nettled at the old man’s jeering tone.

“Yer certain got a lot o’ confidence in a dead one.”

“I reckernize ther fact that he ain’t none pretty, but handsome is as handsome does.  Hatrack is some shy on meat an’ he’s got a temper like a disappointed woman, ter say nothin’ o’ havin’ had ther botts, ringbone, heaves, an’ spavin’, but he’s a good nag, fer all thet, an’ would be good-lookin’ ernough if his wool wasn’t wore off in so many places.”

“Haw, haw!  He ain’t what ye’d call a show animile.”

“He ain’t, but, say, stranger, he kin run.”

“What d’ye say ter a leetle brush betwixt Magpie an’ yer Hatrack?”

“I’m ther gamest thing what ever yer see when it comes ter a hoss race.”

“What’ll we race fer?”

“Nag an’ nag.  If yer beats me, yer takes Hatrack, an’ if he gits away with ther spotted pony, why, yer turns her over ter me.  Is it a go?”

“If yer throw in a six-shooter fer odds.”

“All right, pard, jest ter show yer thet I ain’t no shorthorn, I’ll go yer.  I’ve got a shooter in my war-bag up ter camp what’ll kick ther arm outer yer socket every time yer pulls ther trigger, but she’ll send a bullet through a six-inch oak beam.”

“Anything, so it’s odds.  I’ll go yer.  I reckon I could sell it fer a dollar er so.”