"Why don't your dad sell her for beef?"
"Beef?" The boy laughed. "Say, mister, I'd as soon try to chew leather. They ain't nothing but bones and skin and meanness to old Spot. But she's a good milker. When she comes in fresh she gives pretty nigh onto four gallons a milking."
"Is that so!"
"Sure is! Hard to milk, though. Kick the hat right off'n your head if you don't watch her. Never see such a fool cow as old Spot! Hey!"
Taking advantage of this diversion in the attention of her guardian, Spot had ambled off to the side of the road. The boy darted his horse after her and sent her trotting down the trail, with clicking hoofs and long, sweeping steps that scuffed up a stifling dust.
"Ain't very good to heat a milker up by running 'em, son," reproved
Sinclair.
"I know it ain't. But it wouldn't make me sorry if old Spot just nacherally dropped down dead—she gives me that much trouble. Look at her now, doggone her!"
Spot had turned broadside to them and waited for the boy to catch up before she would take another forward step.
"You just coming in to Sour Creek?"
"Yep, I'm strange to this town."