He looked at her through half-closed eyes.
“Did you ever hear of wet horses?”
She shook her head.
“I deals in wet horses—me, Smith.”
The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Down there on the border,” he explained, “you buy the horses on the Mexico side. You buy ’em when the Mexican boss is asleep in his ’dobe, so there’s no kick about the price. You swim ’em across the Rio Grande and sell ’em to the Americano waitin’ on the other side.”
“You buy de wet horse?”
“No, by Gawd,—I wet ’em!”
“Why you steal?”
He looked at her contemptuously.