“How's that sorrel?” demanded the man. “Can he go?”
Keith hesitated a second.
“Indeed he can go!” put in Beatrice eagerly. “He's every bit as good as Redcloud.”
“Is that sorrel yours?” The man's eyes shifted briefly to her face.
“No-o.” Beatrice, thinking how she had meant to own him, blushed.
“That accounts for it.” He laughed unpleasantly. “I wondered why you was so dead anxious t' have me take him.”
The eyes of Beatrice snapped sparks at him, but her manner was demure, not to say meek. “He belongs to my brother,” she explained, “and my brother has dozens of good saddle-horses. Mr. Cameron's horse is a pet. It's different when a horse follows you all over the place and fairly talks to you. He'll shake hands, and—”
“Uh-huh, I see the point, I guess. What d'yuh say, kid?”
Keith might seem boyish, but he did not enjoy being addressed as “kid.” He was twenty-eight years old, whether he looked it or not.
“I say this: If you take my horse, I'll kill you. I'll have twenty-five cow-punchers camping on your trail before sundown. If you take this girl's horse, I'll do the same.”