The animal was glossy black except for a little patch of white above
the right fore-fetlock; he was tall, rangy, clean-limbed,
high-spirited, and as Calumet sat in the saddle near the corral gate
watching him he trotted impudently up to the bars and looked him over.
Then, after a moment, satisfying his curiosity, he wheeled, slashed at
the gate with both hoofs, and with a snort, that in the horse language
might have meant contempt or derision, cavorted away.
Calumet's admiring glance followed him. He sat in the saddle for half
an hour, eyeing the horse critically, and at the end of that time,
noting that Betty had returned to the ranchhouse with Kelton, probably
having looked at some of the stock she had come to see--Calumet had
observed on his approach that the cattle corral was well filled with
white Herefords--he wheeled Blackleg and rode over to them.
"Mr. Kelton has offered me four hundred head of cattle at a reasonable
figure," Betty told him on his approach. "All that remains is for you
to confirm it."
"I reckon you're the boss," said Calumet. He looked at Kelton, and
evidently his fear that he would "smash" the tatter's face had
vanished--perhaps in a desire to possess the black horse, which had
seized him.
"I reckon you ain't sellin' that black horse?" he said.
"Cheap," said Kelton quickly.
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