Shin was busy at the stable plaiting Rattlesnake’s mane and tail into long, hard braids, a half dozen on the mane and as many on the tail. He was working eagerly, confidently, with the manner of a man who knew what he was doing.
“Shinny,” Whiffle asked, “who is gwine ride yo’ hoss?”
“I’m is.”
“Is you shore you is gwine win, Shin?”
“Suttinly.”
“I don’t see how dat cripple hoss kin run,” Whiffle remarked in troubled tones.
“It do ’pear like dat stiff leg hinders him some,” Shin grinned. “But I done found out somepin ’bout dis hoss: he ain’t skeart of nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”
“Dat discover don’t make him run no faster,” Whiffle replied.
“No’m. But ef I was to tie a rattlesnake to his tail I ’speck he would run some.”
“Huh!” Whiffle snorted disgustedly. “You ain’t gwine tie no snake to dat hoss’s tail.”