Dunne turned his head, and shut his teeth upon forthcoming references to his steed's pedigree. A girl, brown, lean, aquiline of feature, sat astride a big slashing bay, and watched the contest with amusement. Dunne's face, red from exertion, deepened in colour; for some of his remarks, though exceedingly apposite, had not been intended for feminine ears. He answered, between pitches, in the vernacular:
"You bet I will, Sheila! Go to it, old son! Bump to glory if you like!"
But as suddenly as he had begun the buckskin desisted. He heaved a sigh, stood still, and turned a mildly inquiring, backward eye on his rider. It was as if he had said: "What! Still there? You surprise me!"
Sheila McCrae laughed. "He's passing it off as a joke, Casey."
"He nearly got me, the old sinner," said Dunne. "Now he'll be good till next time. You miserable, imitation bad horse, some day I'll manhandle you."
"Shiner knows you won't," the girl commented.
"He knows you're fond of him. You'll quirt him when he pitches, and then give him an extra feed."
"Well, maybe," Casey admitted shamelessly. "I like the old hyena. I've frazzled out leather on his hide that cost more than he did, but I never went after him right. He certainly can drift when he has to. What's the news, Sheila? All well at the ranch?"
She nodded, running a keen eye over his face. "All well. But you're the news bureau, Casey."
"Am I?" he said. "Well, then, I haven't a piece of good news in my saddlebags—not one."