"It's a genuine royal gyasticutus," esserted Windy Bill, positively. "I
seen one once. It has one peculiarity that you can't never fail to
identify it by."

"What's that?"

"It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot."

Wooden promptly conceded that, but claimed the identification not
complete as he doubted whether, strictly speaking, I could be classified
as a congenital idiot. Windy pointed out that evidently I had traded
Tiger for the gyasticutus. Wooden admitted that this proved me an idiot,
but not necessarily a congenital idiot.

This colloquy--and more like it--went on with entire gravity. The other
men were hanging about relishing the situation, but without a symptom of
mirth. I was unsaddling methodically, paying no attention to anybody,
and apparently deaf to all that was being said. If the two old fools had
succeeded in eliciting a word from me they would have been entirely
happy; but I knew that fact, and shut my lips.

I hung my saddle on the rack and was just about to lead the old skate to
water when we all heard the sound of a horse galloping on the road.

"It's a light boss," said somebody after a moment, meaning a horse
without a burden.

We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse coming in to water
was nothing strange or unusual. But an instant later, stirrups swinging,