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he would kick and snap at him, and once he tipped over the water-pail
for no other reason, seemingly, than to deprive the saddler of water.
The result of all this was that, with the passing seasons, both the
Mexican and the saddler showed increasing respect for him, and the
former went to every precaution to avoid a serious encounter.

But it was bound to come in spite of all his efforts to avoid it.
Fighting spring flies in the stable one morning, Pat was aroused by a
familiar sound in the corral. It was the sound which usually accompanied
feeding, and, whirling, he plunged eagerly toward the door. As he did so
the Mexican, about to enter the stable, appeared on the threshold. Pat
saw him too late. He crashed headlong into the Mexican and sent him
reeling out into the inclosure. From that moment it was to the death.

The Mexican painfully gained his feet and, swearing a mighty vengeance,
caught up a heavy shovel. Pat saw what was coming and, dashing out into
the corral, sought protection behind the feed-box. But the infuriated
man hunted him out, dealing upon his quivering back blow after blow,
until, stung beyond all caution, Pat sprang for the object of his
suffering. But the man leaped aside, delivering as he did so another
vicious blow, this time across Pat's nose--most tender of places. Dazed,
trembling, raging with the spirit of battle, he surveyed the man a
moment, and then, with an unnatural outcry, half nicker, half roar, he
hurtled himself upon his enemy, striking him down. But he did not stop
here. When the man attempted to rise he struck him down again, and a
third time. Then, seeing the man lying motionless, he uttered another
outcry, different from the other, a whimpering, baby outcry, and,
whirling away from the scene, hurried across the corral and into the
stable, where he sought out the family horse and, still whimpering
babyishly, stood very close beside her, seeking her sympathy and
encouragement.

This closed the feud for all time. Miguel was not seriously hurt. But he
had learned something, even as Pat had learned something, and thereafter
there existed tacit understanding between them.

The seasons passed, and the third year came, and with it the beginning
of the end of Pat's loneliness. One morning late in June he was aroused
by the voice of the Mexican, who, with brushes and currycomb in hand,
had come to clean him. Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though
wallowing but little, leavi