"I cut the rest into the little corral. There's some good ones there, but they ain't gentle."
They walked toward the other enclosure and at their approach the colts gave evidence of alarm.
"Now that brown horse's been ridden some—"
"But what about the sorrel?" she broke in as a shapely head with a white star between the eyes and a flowing forelock tossed back over delicate ears rose above the mass of backs.
"Him, ma'am? He's probably the best colt you own; got the makin's of a fine horse, but he's a bad actor."
Just then the crowding of the horses broke into a milling and the sorrel came into full view. A beautiful beast with white stockings behind, deep chest, high withers, short, straight back.
"He's a beauty!" she declared. "He has bone and leg. He's gaunt now; not enough belly, but I suppose that's because he's been on the range. I like that square hipped sort when you can get its strength without sacrificing looks."
"You're acquainted with horses somewhat, I take it."
"I've ridden some; hunted a little. Can you bring him out?"
Beck entered the corral and roped the horse. For an instant he resisted, head flung back and feet securely planted; then he came out of the bunch on a trot.