“I should advise you to watch her ears,” urged Grace.
“It isn’t her ears, it’s those hind feet that I am interested in,” replied Stacy. “Ears can’t hurt a fellow—feet can,” he said. “Whoa, you brute!” added Stacy, running a hand down one of the pony’s hind legs, then lifting the foot from the ground.
What followed was almost too swift for the human eye. Barely had the foot been lifted than Kitty kicked the boy clear out of the shop. In his flight, Chunky was catapulted against the cook, and both went down in a heap.
The faces of the cow-punchers relaxed. They howled, fired their revolvers into the air and went fairly wild with joy, while Grace and Elfreda disentangled Stacy and the cowboys’ cook and stood them on their feet.
“Are You Hurt?”
“Are you hurt?” begged Grace solicitously.
“Of course I am. I’m killed, but the white mare is going to get worse than I did,” threatened the fat boy.
“Cool off. Don’t punish her now,” advised Elfreda.
“I don’t want to cool off. I want to shoe that beast.” Stacy strode belligerently to the now meek little animal. “I ought to break your miserable neck, but I haven’t time to do it to-day. Besides, the weather is too warm. If I did, this outfit would make me dig a hole and bury you. I always get the worst of it when trying to do a good turn for others. Now you stand still or I’ll surely forget myself.”