"Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart."
Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely.
"I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock."
"And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?"
"Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his feed."
"Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the lantern a minute."
He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears.
"Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?"
The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered an exclamation.
"How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?"