"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?"

"He sure is!"

"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't
want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful."

Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising
that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr.
Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for
odd jobs of ropin' and such."

"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him."

Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that
sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word.

"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly.

"In Kentucky."

"Hell, I thought you was from New York?"

"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five."

"Was your folks hoss-traders?"

"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good
saddle-horses, however."