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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.


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