brero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was blue silk; his
bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible;
and on his heels glittered--_gilded spurs_!

"And I'll wager," thought the indignant Marianne, "that he hasn't ten
dollars in the world!"

He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against
one hip while he surveyed his mount. In spite of all his vainglory he
was human enough to show some concern, it appeared. He called for a
bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony. Marianne repressed
a cry of warning: a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that. But the
gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the
reaching nose.

The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of
the stable, only shifting from time to time to keep in shadow, passed
his beard through his fist and spoke. Every sound, even of the panting
horse, came clearly to her through the open window.

"Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss."

"Not so small," said the rider. "About fifteen two, I guess."

"Measured him?"

"Never."

"I'd say nigher onto fifteen one."

"Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he's fifteen two; and that's good odds
for you."

The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.

"I'll take that bet if--" he began.

The rider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again. Of
course he knew the height of his own horse and it would be criminal to
take the old loafer's money, but that was his determination.

"Get a tape, son. We'll see."

The stable boy disappeared in the shadow of the door and came back at
once with the measure. The grey gelding, in the meantime, had smelled
the sweetness of hay and was growing restive but a sharp word from the
rider jerked him up like a tug on his bit. He tossed his head and
waited, his ears flat.

"Look out, Dad," called the rider, as he arranged the tape to fall from
the withers of the horse, "this little devil'll kick your head off
quicker than a wink if he gets a chance."

"He don't look mean," said the greybeard, stepping back in haste.

"I like 'em mean and I keep 'em mean," said the other. "A tame hoss is
like a tame man and I don't give a damn for a gent who won't fight."

Marianne covertly stamped. It was so easy to convert her worries into
anger at another that she was beginning to hate this brutal-minded Beau
Brummel of the ranges. B