“Why, dern my eyes!” came from Pecos Pete, who was a veteran “broncho buster,” or horse trainer. “I reckon mebbe I’ll have to git you to show me a few p’ints about ther business.”
“I shown you somedings vot I don’t know,” flung back the excited Dutch boy. “Pring oudt der proncho!”
“Hyar,” said one of the cowboys, dismounting from the tough little beast upon which he had ridden up to the ranch; “hyar’s yer chance. Git right on hyar.”
“Vot am I gifin’ you!” shouted Hans. “Dot peen a drained horses. Vot I vos lookin’ for been a horse dot don’d peen drained alretty yet.”
“I’ll allow as how you’ll find ther critter ain’t trained any too much. You can’t ride him.”
“Vot vill I pet you apout dot?” excitedly demanded the fat boy. “You don’t think I can’t ride him, ain’d id?”
“Wa-al, I judge he’ll make it right lively for ye.”
“Dot seddles id! How I peen aple his pack to ged on?”
Frank interfered, seeing Hans was in earnest about attempting to ride.
“You hadn’t better try it,” he said. “The broncho might kill you.”