"If you think I'm going to poke along behind like a snail, you're mistaken!" Stott retorted.
Wallie's face went white under its tan, though his voice was quiet enough as he answered:
"You'll 'poke' this afternoon, I'm thinking."
Stott turned sharply.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Just what I said. Look at that horse!"
The buckskin's head was hanging, its legs were trembling, there was not a dry hair on it and the sweat was running in rivulets. Its sides were swollen at the stirrup where the spurs had pricked it, and the corners of its mouth were raw and bleeding.
Wallie continued and his voice now was savage:
"You're one of the people, and there's plenty like you, that ought to be prevented by law from owning either a horse or a gun. This afternoon you'll ride in the surrey or walk, as suits you."
Stott laughed insolently.