“Ain’t you tired, Wils?” queried Bludsoe, a squat, bow-legged cowpuncher who appeared to be crippled or very lame.

“Me?  Naw!” grunted Moore, derisively.  “Blud, you sure ask fool questions....  Why, you—­mahogany-colored, stump-legged, biped of a cowpuncher, I’ve had three hours’ sleep in four nights!”

“What’s a biped?” asked Bludsoe, dubiously.

Nobody enlightened him.

“Wils, you-all air the only eddicated cowman I ever loved, but I’m a son-of-a-gun if we ain’t agoin’ to come to blows some day,” declared Bludsoe.

“He shore can sling English,” drawled Lem Billings.  “I reckon he swallowed a dictionary onct.”

“Wal, he can sling a rope, too, an’ thet evens up,” added Jim Montana.

Just at this moment Jack Belllounds appeared upon the scene.  The cowboys took no notice of him.  Jim was bandaging a leg of his horse; Bludsoe was wearily gathering up his saddle and trappings; Lem was giving his tired mustang a parting slap that meant much.  Moore evidently awaited a fresh mount.  A Mexican lad had come in out of the pasture leading several horses, one of which was the mottled white mustang that Moore rode most of the time.

Belllounds lounged forward with interest as Moore whistled, and the mustang showed his pleasure.  Manifestly he did not like the Mexican boy and he did like Moore.

“Spottie, it’s drag yearlings around for you to-day,” said the cowboy, as he caught the mustang.  Spottie tossed his head and stepped high until the bridle was on.  When the saddle was thrown and strapped in place the mustang showed to advantage.  He was beautiful, but not too graceful or sleek or fine-pointed or prancing to prejudice any cowboy against his qualities for work.

Jack Belllounds admiringly walked all around the mustang a little too close to please Spottie.

“Moore, he’s a fair-to-middling horse,” said Belllounds, with the air of judge of horseflesh.  “What’s his name?”

“Spottie,” replied Moore, shortly, as he made ready to mount.

“Hold on, will you!” ordered Jack, peremptorily.  “I like this horse.  I want to look him over.”

When he grasped the bridle-reins out of the cowboy’s hand Spottie jumped as if he had been shot at.  Belllounds jerked at him and went closer.  The mustang reared, snorting, plunging to get loose.  Then Jack Belllounds showed the sudden temper for which he was noted.  Red stained his pale cheeks.

“Damn you—­come down!” he shouted, infuriated at the mustang, and with both hands he gave a powerful lunge.  Spottie came down, and stood there, trembling all over, his ears laid back, his eyes showing fright and pain.  Blood dripped from his mouth where the bit had cut him.

“I’ll teach you to stand,” said Belllounds, darkly.  “Moore, lend me your spurs.  I want to try him out.”

“I don’t lend my spurs—­or my horse, either,” replied the cowboy, quietly, with a stride that put him within reach of Spottie.