The gambler's eyes, unguarded and sincere for once, flashed quizzical
admiration at Little Boy Blue, who, concurrently with the above speech,
quavered forth his lurid personal opinions of the red pony. He was a
lean, large-eyed person, apparently of some nine or ten years--which left
his vocabulary unaccounted for; his face was smeared and bleeding,
scratched by catclaw; his apparel much betattered by the same reason.

He now checked a flood of biographical detail concerning the red pony
long enough to fling a remark their way:

"Ain't no Boy Blue--damn your soul! Name's Robteeleecarr!"

Dewing and Mitchell exchanged glances.

"What's that? What did he say?"

"He means to inform you," said Dewing, "that his name is Robert E.
Lee Carr." His glance swept appraisingly up the farther hill, and he
chuckled: "Old Israel Putnam would be green with envy if he had seen that
ride. Some boy!"

"He must be a new one to Cobre; I've never seen him before."

"Been here a week or ten days, and he's a notorious character already. So
is Nan-ná."

"Nan-ná, I gather, being the pony?"

"Exactly. Little Apache devil, that horse is. Robert's dad, one Jackson
Carr, is going to try freighting. He's camped over the ridge at Hospital