“I’d like right well to make love to that pinto my own se’f, Bob,” commented a weather-beaten puncher.  “Any old time Dave wants to saw him off onto me at sixty dollars I’m here to do business.”

“You’re sure an easy mark, Buck,” grunted a large fat man leaning against a wheel.  His white, expressionless face and soft hands differentiated him from the tough range-riders.  He did not belong with the outfit, but had joined it the day before with George Doble, a half-brother of the trail foreman, to travel with it as far as Malapi.  In the Southwest he was known as Ad Miller.  The two men had brought with them in addition to their own mounts a led pack-horse.

Doble backed up his partner.  “Sure are, Buck.  I can get cowponies for ten and fifteen dollars—­all I want of ’em,” he said, and contrived by the lift of his lip to make the remark offensive.

“Not ponies like Chiquito,” ventured Sanders amiably.

“That so?” jeered Doble.

He looked at David out of a sly and shifty eye.  He had only one.  The other had been gouged out years ago in a drunken fracas.

“You couldn’t get Chiquito for a hundred dollars.  Not for sale,” the owner of the horse said, a little stiffly.

Miller’s fat paunch shook with laughter.  “I reckon not—­at that price.  I’d give all of fohty for him.”

“Different here,” replied Doble.  “What has this pinto got that makes him worth over thirty?”

“He’s some bronc,” explained Bob Hart.  “Got a bagful of tricks, a nice disposition, and sure can burn the wind.”

“Yore friend must be valuin’ them parlor tricks at ten dollars apiece,” murmured Miller.  “He’d ought to put him in a show and not keep him to chase cow tails with.”

“At that, I’ve seen circus hosses that weren’t one two three with Chiquito.  He’ll shake hands and play dead and dance to a mouth-organ and come a-runnin’ when Dave whistles.”

“You don’t say.”  The voice of the fat man was heavy with sarcasm.  “And on top of all that edjucation he can run too.”

The temper of Sanders began to take an edge.  He saw no reason why these strangers should run on him, to use the phrase of the country.  “I don’t claim my pinto’s a racer, but he can travel.”

“Hmp!” grunted Miller skeptically.

“I’m here to say he can,” boasted the owner, stung by the manner of the other.

“Don’t look to me like no racer,” Doble dissented.  “Why, I’d be ’most willin’ to bet that pack-horse of ours, Whiskey Bill, can beat him.”

Buck Byington snorted.  “Pack-horse, eh?” The old puncher’s brain was alive with suspicions.  On account of the lameness of his horse he had returned to camp in the middle of the day and had discovered the two newcomers trying out the speed of the pinto.  He wondered now if this precious pair of crooks had been getting a line on the pony for future use.  It occurred to him that Dave was being engineered into a bet.