"That's it."
"But a sure goer, eh?"
"Yep."
He led the pony to the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed.
The horse first rolled on the dirt floor and then started methodically
on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not "off his feed,"
Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy.
"Where's the folks?" he asked.
"Ma's sick, a little, and didn't get up to-day. Pa's down to the corral, cussing mad. But I can cook you up some chow."
"All right son. I got a dollar here that'll buy you a pretty good store knife."
The boy flushed so red that by contrast his straw coloured hair seemed positively white.
"Maybe you want to pay me?" he suggested fiercely. "Maybe you think we're squatters that run a hotel?"
Recognizing the true Western breed even in this small edition, Nash grinned.