The cow-puncher snorted.
“Ride him! Why, pard, I’ve seen horned toads that could wiggle their legs a tarnation sight faster, an’ any self-respectin’ Gila Monster c’d beat him at a beauty show. Which I ain’t criticizin’ none, you understand, I’m just expressin’ my feelin’s.”
Antoine looked quietly at the broncho beside which the cowboy was standing.
“I would not enter yours at a beauty show,” he retorted.
“An’ I s’pose you’d be ekally scornful about him in a race? You might like to make a little bet on it?”
“No, no,” Antoine replied. “I would not bet against him in a race. He would run too well.”
“What makes you opine he can run?”
“I know he can run,” the young paleontologist answered. “He must run. A horse with a pelvis placed as high as that, small body well tucked in, and those long, sloping pasterns must be a racer. There is Arabian blood in that horse.”
The cowboy deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand and eyed the speaker with considerable respect.
“This is pre-cisely the nine-millionth time I’ve acted like a locoed mule,” he admitted with candor. “I had you all doped out as tenderfoot, an’ when it comes to pony talk, you’re holdin’ a straight flush against my pair o’ deuces.”