THE MAGPIE PONY.
"Say, podner, might I be so free an' onquisitive ez ter inquire ez ter
whar yer got thet thar palfrey yer ridin'?"
The speaker was a tall, gaunt old man with a tangled mass of grizzled
whiskers, and the "podner" he addressed was Bud Morgan.
"Yer might," answered Bud, eying the questioner keenly.
"Well!"
"Why don't yer?"
"Oh, I see. Whar did yer git it?"
"I traded a Waterbury watch fer it, an' ther feller what made ther trade
throwed in a pack o' cigareets."
"Oh!"
"Anything else ye'd like ter know?"
"Well, seein' ez yer so communicative, I'd like ter hev yer tell me how
fur it's ter Yeller Fork."
"Betwixt grub."
"Come ergin."
"Ez fur ez yer kin ride betwixt 'arly breakfast an' dinner."
"Well, I'm obleegin' ter yer. I reckon we'll be hikin'."
"Who's ther kid?"
"Thet boy is my grandson. We come outer Missouri ter see what could be
did in this yere new country, an' it's mighty hard sleddin'."
"What's ther trouble?"
"Well, stranger, so long ez yer kind ernuff ter inquire, I'll tell yer."
"I'm listenin'."
"I'm too old ter work at ther only thing what seems ter be out
yere--cow-punchin'--an' ther kiddie is too young. Now, if 'twas farmin',
we'd be in it."
"Thar ain't no more farmin' out yere than a rabbit, thet's shore. What
might yer bizness be at home?"
"I'm a hoss trader."
"Thar ought ter be somethin' doin' out yere fer yer, then. All thar is
in this country is hosses an' cattle."
"They ain't my kind o' hosses."
"Yer don't seem ter fancy cow ponies, eh?"
"I reckon they're all right in their way, podner, but they're a leetle
too wild fer me to break, an' the kid's not strong enough."
"Askin' questions seems ter be fash'n'ble. Whar did yer git thet magpie
hoss?"
Bud was looking over the old man's mount, a beautiful little
black-and-white-spotted pony, as clean limbed as a racer, and with a
round and compact body. It was a bizarre-looking little animal, with a
long, black mane and tail, at the roots of which was a round, white
spot. It was the sort of animal that would attract attention anywhere.
"Magpie! Podner, I riz her from a colt."
"She's shore a showy beast."
"She is some on ther picture, ain't she?" asked the old man, looking the
pony over admiringly.
"She's all right, but--"
"But what, podner?" The old man looked at Bud with a frown.
"Well, I ain't none on knockin' another man's hoss, but I never see one
o' them black-an'-white-spotted animiles what could do more than lope,
an' out in this yere country hosses hez got ter run like a scared coyote
ter be any good in ther cow business."
"Yer reckon this yere Magpie can't run?" asked the old man, bristling.
"I ain't said so."
"Well, yer alluded ter a magpie hoss as couldn't do nothin' but lope."
"I ain't never see none what could do much more."
"You ain't never see Magpie split ther wind, then."
"I ain't."
"Mebbe ye'd like ter."
"Mebbe I would."
"I reckon yer thinks ther cow what yer a-straddlin' of now kin run
some."
"A leetle bit. But, yer see, when I got him he was a broken-down cow
hoss what hed been ridden ter death an' fed on sand an' alkali water so
long thet he wa'n't much good nohow."
"Jest picked him up wanderin'?"
"Not eggsactly. Yer see, it wuz this way: I was coming ercross Noo
Mexico about a month back, when I runs foul o' a hombre what is all in.
He hadn't et fer so long thet yer could see ther bumps made by his
backbone through his shirt. I hed some grub in my war bag, an' I fed an'
watered him. This yer nag wuz all in, too, an' he hed a long way ter go,
so when ther feller ups an' perposes ter trade ponies I give him ther
merry cachinnation."
"Ther what?"
"Ther laugh."
"Go ahead, podner, yer shore hez a splendid education."
"I see thet he'll never git ter whar he's goin' on ther nag, an' I
thinks I'll do him a favor by sittin' him on a piece o' live hossmeat,
an' I said I'd trade if he hed anythin' ter boot. Now, what do yer think
he hed?"
"I ain't got a notion."
"A pack o' Mexican cigareets what burned like a bresh fire an' smelled
like a wet dog under a stove."
"Haw, haw! An' yer traded?"
"I thought some fust, an' then I thinks what's ther odds? Thar's plenty
o' hosses in camp, an' it'll probably save ther feller's life ter let
him hev ther pony, what ain't none out o' ther common, so I says, 'It's
a go, pard.' I clumb down an' we changed saddles, an' he handed over
ther pack o' cigareets an' we went our ways."
"Yer shore is a kind-hearted man."
"I ain't, neither. I jest knows a hoss when I sees one."
"Yer don't call thet a hoss yer a-straddlin', I hope?"
"I shore do. He ain't much fer ter gaze on admirin', I agree, but he's a
good little cayuse. I reckon, now, yer some proud o' thet magpie hoss."
"I be. It kin outrun anythin' this side o' ther State o' Newbrasky."
"P'r'aps yer lookin' fer a race ter see what ther best we've got in camp
kin do, no?"
"Thar ain't nary time what I won't run a race if I think thar's ary
merit in my hossflesh. How erbout ther animile what yer sits on so
graceful?"
"Oh, I reckon he kin ride rings eround ther magpie hoss," said Bud, who
was a trifle nettled at the old man's jeering tone.
"Yer certain got a lot o' confidence in a dead one."
"I reckernize ther fact that he ain't none pretty, but handsome is as
handsome does. Hatrack is some shy on meat an' he's got a temper like a
disappointed woman, ter say nothin' o' havin' had ther botts, ringbone,
heaves, an' spavin', but he's a good nag, fer all thet, an' would be
good-lookin' ernough if his wool wasn't wore off in so many places."
"Haw, haw! He ain't what ye'd call a show animile."
"He ain't, but, say, stranger, he _kin_ run."
"What d'ye say ter a leetle brush betwixt Magpie an' yer Hatrack?"
"I'm ther gamest thing what ever yer see when it comes ter a hoss
race."
"What'll we race fer?"
"Nag an' nag. If yer beats me, yer takes Hatrack, an' if he gits away
with ther spotted pony, why, yer turns her over ter me. Is it a go?"
"If yer throw in a six-shooter fer odds."
"All right, pard, jest ter show yer thet I ain't no shorthorn, I'll go
yer. I've got a shooter in my war-bag up ter camp what'll kick ther arm
outer yer socket every time yer pulls ther trigger, but she'll send a
bullet through a six-inch oak beam."
"Anything, so it's odds. I'll go yer. I reckon I could sell it fer a
dollar er so."
"I reckon yer could," said Bud sarcastically. "I wuz offered ten dollars
fer it by a hombre down ter Las Vegas a month ago. But he was a husky
feller, an' wanted a strong shooter. He wanted ter go out huntin' fer a
feller with it, an' I wouldn't let him hev it. Is it a go, shore
enough?"
"It be."
"All right; come over ter ther camp an' stay overnight, an' fill yer
pale American hides with ther best grub what ever wuz cooked on ther
range. Our cook is an artist."
Bud led the way on his little, flea-bitten skeleton of a pony that
snorted and reared, kicked, and showed the whites of its eyes when he
woke it from the drooping position it had held while he was talking to
the old man.
In half an hour they were in sight, from the hill they had topped, of a
vast band of cattle grazing in a broad valley.
In a sheltered spot below the hill was a typical cow camp. A
white-covered chuck wagon shone in the rays of the departing sun, and
the smoke arose from the cook's fire, where he was baking biscuit in a
Dutch oven, while the fragrant odors of frying bacon and steaming
coffee filled the air.
"What have you found this time?" asked Ben Tremont, as Bud came into
camp.
"This yere gent is a maverick from Missouri what I found wanderin'
across the peerarie searchin' fer Yaller Fork, an' he hez bantered me
ter a hoss race, I ast him ter come in an' stay overnight, an' eat, an'
we'll run ther hosses in ther mornin'."
"What horses?"
"I'm goin' ter run Hatrack agin' thet magpie mare o' hisn, an' throw in
a six-shooter with Hatrack if I lose."
"Say, are you going altogether dippy?" growled Ben. "Why, that little
mare will run away from you as if Hatrack was tied to a post."
"Reckon so? Well, maybe I want to lose Hatrack, an' maybe all I want is
ter capture thet magpie pony."
"Oh, what a lovely pony!"
Stella Fosdick had ridden into camp, and her exclamation of admiration
for the magpie pony drew the attention of the boys to her.
"D'ye like thet thar pony?" asked Bud.
"I think it's beautiful," answered Stella enthusiastically.
"Then it's yours."
"What do you mean?"
"This old gent an' me is goin' ter hev a race in ther mornin', hoss fer
hoss, an' when it's over ther magpie hoss is yours."
A peal of rippling laughter greeted this.
"See yere, gal, what is all this noise about?" asked Bud huffily. "If
yer laughin' at ther idea o' Hatrack beatin' ther magpie hoss, don't yer
do it, fer thet's showin' ignerance o' hossflesh, an' I thought yer wuz
too well brought up at Moon Valley ter think thet pretty spots on a
hoss hez anythin' ter do with his ability ter make a race er hold a
cow."
"Forgive me, Bud, I didn't mean to laugh at Hatrack, but, really, he
doesn't look as if he could run any faster than a lame dog."
"Oh, I reckon he'll git over ther ground fast ernough," said Bud, with a
sly wink at the girl. "But he won't do it with me on his back. I'm a
trifle heavy fer fast work. I'll hev ter git Kit ter pilot him, I
reckon."
"I reckon you won't," said Stella. "If any one rides him it will be me.
I'm a good many pounds lighter than Kit."
"All right, Stella. I wanted yer ter ride him, but I didn't like ter
impose on good nature by askin' yer ter do it."
"Why, I'd love to ride the race. You ought to know me by this time."
"It's a go, an' if yer win, as win yer must, ther magpie hoss is yours."
"Oh, Bud, you don't mean it! Then I'll certainly ride to win."
So it was settled, and the old man and his grandson were accorded the
hospitality of the camp.
After a hearty supper, while they were all sitting around the fire, and
the old man was telling stories of his trip into the Southwest, for the
broncho boys were now herding a big bunch of range cattle in what is
known as No Man's Land, an arm of northern Texas lying west of Oklahoma,
and claimed by both, the day watch rode into camp, and, stripping their
saddles from their ponies, turned them loose. Then the boys threw
themselves upon the ground to rest after several hours of constant
riding.
One of the cowboys in the outfit, Sol Flatbush by name, stood staring at
the old man and the boy.
He was scratching his forelock in a meditative sort of way, as if
trying to remember something.
"What is it, Solly? I reckon what yer tryin' ter think of is that ye've
forgot yer supper," said Bud.
"No, 'tain't that," said the cow-puncher, staring harder at the old man.
"Hear about ther race, Sol?" asked Ben.
"Now, don't yer expect me ter ask yer what race an' then spring thet ole
gag about ther 'human race.' I won't stand fer it. I've got troubles
enough. Thet buckskin pony o' mine hez hed ther very divil in him all
day, an' I ain't feelin' none too amiable."
"This is on the square."
"Well, cut loose."
"Bud is going to race Hatrack against that magpie horse grazing out
there, and throw in a six-shooter if the old gent wins."
Sol Flatbush turned and looked at the magpie pony, then at the old man.
Suddenly a gleam of intelligence illuminated his face, and he grinned.
"Say, Bud, I wisht ye'd come over yere an' look at this buckskin's off
hind foot, an' tell me what ye thinks o' it. He's been actin' powerful
queer on it all day."
Bud rose lazily and followed Sol out of camp. The buckskin was grazing
peacefully a few hundred yards away, and as they walked toward it Sol
Flatbush said:
"Bud, d'ye know that ole maverick?"
"I shore don't. Never even ast him his name," answered Bud.
"Well, I do. That's ole 'Cap' Norris. He's a hoss sharp fer fair. He an'
that boy don't do nothin' but ride the country with that magpie hoss,
pickin' up races at cow camps an' ranches an' in towns. That hoss o'
hisn is a 'ringer.' His real name is Idlewild, an' he's a perfessional
race hoss. Boy, yer stung!"