stang?"

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.

"Look! Darn me if thet ain't a naked Indian comin'!"

The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost
on a run.

"Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another