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"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.


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