The stable yard was for the moment empty; but as I walked across it one of its doors opened and a very little, wizened old man emerged leading a horse.  He tied the animal to a ring in the wall and proceeded at once to currying.

I had been in Arizona for ten years.  During that time I had seen a great many very fine native horses, for the stock of that country is directly descended from the barbs of the conquistadores.  But, though often well formed and as tough and useful as horseflesh is made, they were small.  And no man thought of refinements in caring for any one of his numerous mounts.  They went shaggy or smooth according to the season; and not one of them could have called a curry comb or brush out of its name.

The beast from which the wizened old man stripped a bona fide horse blanket was none of these.  He stood a good sixteen hands; his head was small and clean cut with large, intelligent eyes and little, well-set ears; his long, muscular shoulders sloped forward as shoulders should; his barrel was long and deep and well ribbed up; his back was flat and straight; his legs were clean and—­what was rarely seen in the cow country—­well proportioned—­the cannon bone shorter than the leg bone, the ankle sloping and long and elastic—­in short, a magnificent creature whose points of excellence appeared one by one under close scrutiny.  And the high lights of his glossy coat flashed in the sun like water.

I walked from one side to the other of him marvelling.  Not a defect, not even a blemish could I discover.  The animal was fairly a perfect specimen of horseflesh.  And I could not help speculating as to its use.  Old Man Hooper had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fame of such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country.

During my inspection the wizened little man continued his work without even a glance in my direction.  He had on riding breeches and leather gaiters, a plaid waistcoat and a peaked cap; which, when you think of it, was to Arizona about as incongruous as the horse.  I made several conventional remarks of admiration, to which he paid not the slightest attention.  But I know a bait.

“I suppose you claim him as a Morgan,” said I.

“Claim, is it!” grunted the little man, contemptuously.

“Well, the Morgan is not a real breed, anyway,” I persisted.  “A sixty-fourth blood will get one registered.  What does that amount to?”

The little man grunted again.

“Besides, though your animal is a good one, he is too short and straight in the pasterns,” said I, uttering sheer, rank, wild heresy.

After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentatively, then with entire, enthusiastic agreement.  I saw to that.  Allowing yourself to be converted from an absurd opinion is always a sure way to favour.  We ended with antiphonies of praise for this descendant of Justin Morgan.