Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections.  Presently he rose and strolled round to the corral.  Wishful’s three saddle-animals were lazying in the heat.  Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of a horse.  He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and foolish.  The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed eye.  The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather slow and deliberate.  Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep withers, and powerful hindquarters.

Bartley stepped round to the hotel.  “Have you a minute to spare?” he queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby.

Wishful had.  He followed Bartley round to the corral.

“I’m thinking of buying a saddle-horse,” stated Bartley.

Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar.  “Why don’t you rent one—­and turn him in when you’re through with him.”

“I’d rather own one, and I may use him a long time.”

“I ain’t sufferin’ to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley.  But I wouldn’t turn down a fair offer.”

“Set a price on that sorrel,” said Bartley.

Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and looked fast.  Bartley did not want the animal.  He merely wanted to arrive at a basis from which to work.

“Well,” drawled Wishful, “I’d let him go for a hundred.”

“What will you take for the gray?”

“Him?  Well, he’s the best hoss I got.  I don’t think he’s your kind of a hoss.”

“The best, eh?  And a hundred for the sorrel.”  Bartley appeared to reflect.

Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse he owned to awaken Bartley’s interest.  The best horse in the corral was the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that.

“Would you put a price on the gray?” queried Bartley.

“Why, sure!  You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five.”

“A hundred for the sorrel—­and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; is that correct?”

“Yep.”

“And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?”

“He sure is!”

“All right.  I’ll give you a hundred for that big bay, there.  I don’t want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful.”

Wishful saw that he was cornered.  He had cornered himself, premising that the Easterner didn’t know horses.  “That bay ain’t much account, Mr. Bartley.  He’s slow—­nothin’ but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for odd jobs of ropin’ and such.”

“Well, he’s good enough for me.  I’ll give you a hundred for him.”

Wishful scratched his head.  He did not want to sell the bay for that sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word.

“Say, where was you raised?” he queried abruptly.

“In Kentucky.”

“Hell, I thought you was from New York?”