“How old be you?” queried Annersley.

“Twelve, goin’ on thirteen.”

“Uh-huh.  And the hoss?”

“Oh, he’s got a little age on him, but that don’t hurt him none.”

Annersley’s beard twitched.  “He must ‘a’ been a colt for quite a spell.  But I ain’t lookin’ for a cow-hoss.  What I want is a hoss that I can work.  How does he go in harness?”

“Harness!  Say, mister, this here hoss can pull the kingpin out of a wagon without sweatin’ a hair.  Hook him onto a plough and he sure can make the ole plough smoke.”

Annersley shook his head.  “That’s a mite too fast for me, son.  I’d hate to have to stop at the end of every furrow and pour water on that there plough-point to keep her cool.”

“‘Course if you’re lookin’ for a cheap hoss,” said Young Pete, nothing abashed, “why, we got ’em.  But I was showin’ you the best in the string.”

“Don’t know that I want him.  What you say he was worth?”

“He’s worth a hundred, to any man.  But we’re sellin’ him cheap, for cash—­forty dollars.”

“Fifty,” said the trader, “and if he ain’t worth fifty, he ain’t worth puttin’ a halter on.  Fifty is givin’ him to you.”

“So?  Then I reckon I don’t want him.  I wa’n’t lookin’ for a present.  I was lookin’ to buy a hoss.”

The trader saw a real customer slipping through his fingers.  “Yon can put a halter on him for forty—­cash.”

“Nope.  Your pardner here said forty,”—­and Annersley smiled at Young Pete.  “I’ll look him over ag’in for thirty.”

Young Pete knew that they needed money badly, a fact that the trader was apt to ignore when he was drinking.  “You said I could sell him for forty, or mebby less, for cash,” complained Young Pete, slipping from the pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel.

“You go lay down!” growled the trader, and he launched a kick that jolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire.  Pete was used to being kicked, but not before an audience.  Moreover, the hot ashes had burned his hands.  Pete’s dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rose bristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of the trader.  The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much.

Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shaking with rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader.  “You’re a doggone liar!  You’re a doggone coward!  You’re a doggone thief!”

“Just a minute, friend,” said Annersley as the trader started toward the boy.  “I reckon the boy is right—­but we was talkin’ hosses.  I’ll give you just forty dollars for the hoss—­and the boy.”

“Make it fifty and you can take ’em.  The kid is no good, anyhow.”

This was too much for Young Pete.  He could stand abuse and scant rations, but to be classed as “no good,” when he had worked so hard and lied so eloquently, hurt more than mere kick or blow.  His face quivered and he bit his lip.  Old man Annersley slowly drew a wallet from his overalls and counted out forty dollars.  “That hoss ain’t sound,” he remarked and he recounted the money.  He’s got a couple of wind-puffs, and he’s old.  He needs feedin’ and restin’ up.  That boy your boy?”