“Go!” somebody yapped.
Old Thunder exploded. Always did. But this present play caught Laramie in a frame of mind more savage than usual. Was he to be butchered for a tourist holiday? He gave the brute its head and raked with spurs relentless, to have the fit over with in short order. And ride he could, could Laramie Red, veteran of the range dating back to the long trails, to Abilene, Ogalalla and Miles City.
Cheers and cries attended upon him, inciting Old Thunder. His hat sailed free. After the preliminary cavorting, Thunder, true to his system, launched himself into furious straight-away out across the brush, with Laramie sitting heavily until the fit should expend.
And when he rocked in upon an Old Thunder, now satiated, to get his hat and to receive instructions for duty, he encountered a blast extraordinary.
The elderly man, swelling like a turkey cock, advanced upon him.
“Is that your horse, sir?”
“No sir; I wouldn’t claim any such animal,” retorted Laramie, ruffled anew.
“Right. It happens to be my horse. You’re fired.”
Laramie gasped.
“What’s that?”