He looked at David out of a sly and shifty eye. He had only one. The other had been gouged out years ago in a drunken fracas.
"You couldn't get Chiquito for a hundred dollars. Not for sale," the owner of the horse said, a little stiffly.
Miller's fat paunch shook with laughter. "I reckon not—at that price.
I'd give all of fohty for him."
"Different here," replied Doble. "What has this pinto got that makes him worth over thirty?"
"He's some bronc," explained Bob Hart. "Got a bagful of tricks, a nice disposition, and sure can burn the wind."
"Yore friend must be valuin' them parlor tricks at ten dollars apiece," murmured Miller. "He'd ought to put him in a show and not keep him to chase cow tails with."
"At that, I've seen circus hosses that weren't one two three with Chiquito. He'll shake hands and play dead and dance to a mouth-organ and come a-runnin' when Dave whistles."
"You don't say." The voice of the fat man was heavy with sarcasm. "And on top of all that edjucation he can run too."
The temper of Sanders began to take an edge. He saw no reason why these strangers should run on him, to use the phrase of the country. "I don't claim my pinto's a racer, but he can travel."
"Hmp!" grunted Miller skeptically.