‘I rode him over from the Cup Q all right.’
‘I know. He may have been glad to get away from there—but look at him!’ Bob took a few steps closer to the old gray head which suddenly looked deformed. A float of baleful red appeared back of the near, filmy eye.
‘I’ve seen that look once or twice before, Bart, and I’ll have to tell you to stay off him.’
‘All he knew from the Cup Q was rakin’ and quirtin’, Dad.’
‘But that ain’t the look of a nice hoss.’
‘I like him.’
‘It ain’t the look of a broke hoss, Bart.’
‘I don’t want no broke hoss.’
‘You’ll have to stay off, that’s all—’
Bob saw that deep questioning look in the eyes slowly turned his way—no anger, no hate, but separateness, a widening gulf.