About an hour later the boys were in the stable.
“Ho, for that little Mexican town, and the Texas Rangers!” exclaimed Cranny. Then his eyes traveling over the mustangs he added, “A corkin’ fine pony o’ yours, Bob.” He critically examined the brown-patched animal when the Rambler a moment later led it forth into the light.
No friendly look greeted Cranny from a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. And at almost every sound the mustang’s shaggy sides quivered; its ears were thrown back, while four active hoofs suggested the advisability of keeping a considerable distance away.
“H’m—a jolly bad-tempered little beast,” commented the lad.
“Here’s the horse-dealer’s description of him,” laughed Bob. “‘He’s hardy as a cactus, vicious as a rattler, and as ungrateful as a coyote, but he certainly can go.’”
“Well, I only hope that I can find one just like him,” declared Cranny. “They can’t be too gingery for me.”
It was a pretty difficult job to saddle “Whirly-gig,” but Bob accomplished the task with an ease that brought an admiring comment from the big Tacoma lad.
“You’re as clever as a cow-puncher in a wild-west show, Bob,” he chuckled.
“Thanks,” laughed the other. “Whoa! old boy,” he patted the pony’s neck. “Ready, fellows? Whoa—come along then!”
A clatter of hoofs echoed noisily throughout the dingy old building as the horses one by one were led outside.