The pony moved not.
“Sweetie!”
The horse still stood.
“Snookums!”
No sign from the bronc.
“Black Bottom, you ole, lantern-jawed, hook-eyed, son of a sea-cook, if you don’t trot over here so pronto that yore ears lay back I’ll knock yore fool carcass so far—”
The horse whinnied, bobbed his head, and walked over to Nick. Then he bent one knee in supplication.
“Atta baby! Now we’re all right! Hold still!”
Nick arose and climbed slowly into the saddle.
“Needs coaxin’,” he said, grinning. “You gotta talk nice to him if you want him to do you favors! Come on, baby—we’re off. Get along there, you mules, you!”