“Yea-a-ah, I reckon I do. That horse is pretty well known down in my country. The man who got him is a good rider, ’cause Amigo is kinda particular.”
“I don’t remember seein’ a horse of that description, Collins.”
“No, I don’t suppose yuh have. Well,” he shoved his chair back, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I shore thank yuh for a good meal, Mr. Kelton.”
“Yo’re welcome. Are you goin’ to be around here long?”
“Long enough to look over the horses in this valley.”
“Well, come up and see us again, Mr. Collins.”
“Thank yuh. Folks who know me always call me Cultus. Got that name when I was up north, where the Injuns still talk Chinook. It means ‘bad.’ Cultus Collins, that’s me; jist wanderin’ around, hunting for a gray horse.”
A broad smile suffused his lean face, and a hound dog, stretched on the back porch, came in to sniff at his knees, and then reared up, inviting a pat on the head. Uncle Jimmy squinted at the hound and gave Cultus a sharp glance.
“Chongo don’t usually take up with a stranger,” he said.
“Recognises a kindred spirit,” grinned Cultus. “Both of us are lean, long and not so very pretty.”