Brand Williams was solemnly shaving. He turned a lathered face toward Collie whose abrupt entrance had all but caused the foreman to sacrifice his left ear. "Well," he drawled, "who is dead?"
"You mean, Who is alive? I guess. Say, Brand, what do you think that Yuma horse over at the Oro is worth?"
"That dam' outlaw? Ain't worth the trouble of mentioning."
"But, oh, Brand, she's built right! I tell you! Short-coupled, and them legs and withers! They ain't a pony in the valley can touch her. And only three years old!"
"Nor a man neither," said Williams.
"She's been scared to death because the fellows was scared of her and started in wrong."
"So'll the man be that tries to ride her. Say, I seen that copper-colored, china-eyed, she-son of a Kansas cyclone put Bull O'Toole so far to the bad once that his return ticket expired long before he got back. I tell you, kid, she's outlaw. She's got the disposition of a Comanche with a streak of lightnin' on a drunk throwed in. You keep off that hoss!"
"Maybe," said Collie. "But I notice you put me to breakin' about all the stock on this ranch that you can't handle yourself."
Which was true. Williams shaved and perspired in silence.
"Let's see," he said presently, emerging from the wash-basin. "When's that barbecue comin' off?"