"Look at Spottie's mouth."

The rancher's way of approaching a horse was singularly different from
his son's, notwithstanding the fact that Spottie knew him and showed no
uneasiness. The examination took only a moment.

"Tongue cut bad. Thet's a damn shame. Take thet bridle off.... There. If
it'd been an ornery hoss, now.... Moore, how'd this happen?"

"We just rode in," replied Wilson, hurriedly. "I was saddling Spottie
when Jack came up. He took a shine to the mustang and wanted to ride
him. When Spottie reared--he's shy with strangers--why, Jack gave a hell
of a jerk on the bridle. The bit cut Spottie.... Well, that made me mad,
but I held in. I objected to Jack riding Spottie. You see, Hudson was
hurt yesterday and he appointed me foreman for to-day. I needed Spottie.
But your son couldn't see it, and that made me sore. Jack said the
mustang was his--"

"His?" interrupted Belllounds.

"Yes. He claimed Spottie. Well, he wasn't really mine, so I gave in.
When I threw off the saddle, which _was_ mine, Jack began to roar. He
said he was foreman and he'd have me discharged. But I said I'd quit
already. We both kept getting sorer and I called him Buster Jack.... He
hit me first. Then we fought. I reckon I was getting the best of him
when he made a dive for Bludsoe's gun. And that's all."

"Boss, as sure as I'm a born cowman," put in Bludsoe, "he'd hev plugged
Wils if he'd got my gun. At thet he damn near got it!"