Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each had spoken first.  Then Macomber addressed her: 

“Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?”

“Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story—­a horse trade!” laughed Lucy.

“There’s a little difference of opinion,” said Macomber, politely indicating the riders.  “Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you’re a judge of a hoss.  And as good as thet you tell the truth.  Thet ain’t in some hoss-traders I know. . . .  What do you think of this mustang?”

Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders.

“Macomber, aren’t you a great one to talk?” queried Lucy, severely.  “Didn’t you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of bones for a perfectly good pony—­one I liked to ride?”

The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with confusion.

“’Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I’m surprised you could think thet of such an old friend of yours—­an’ your Dad’s, too.  I’m hopin’ he doesn’t side altogether with you.”

“Dad and I never agree about a horse.  He thinks he got the best of you.  But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are.  Worse than Cordts!”

“Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I’m willin’ to be thought bad.  I’m the first feller to take him in. . . .  An’ now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel.”

Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse.  She walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly.  The mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not.  His eyes showed that he was not used to women.

“He’s not well broken,” said Lucy.  “Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him.”

Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.

“He’s deceiving at first because he’s good to look at,” said Lucy.  “But I wouldn’t own him.  A saddle will turn on him.  He’s not vicious, but he’ll never get over his scare.  He’s narrow between the eyes—­a bad sign.  His ears are stiff—­and too close.  I don’t see anything more wrong with him.”

“You seen enough,” declared Macomber.  “An’ so you wouldn’t own him?”

“You couldn’t make me a present of him—­even on my birthday.”

“Wal, now I’m sorry, for I was thinkin’ of thet,” replied Macomber, ruefully.  It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation.

“Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and then.  It’s vanity and desire to beat the other man that’s your downfall.”

Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders.  The good-natured raillery was interrupted by a sharp word from one of them.