Rowdy watched them impersonally; a glance proved that the man was not Wooden
Shoes, and so he was not particularly interested in him or his doings. It
did occur to him, however, that if the fellow wanted to catch that brute, he
ought to have sense enough to get a horse. No one but a plumb idiot would
mill around in that snow afoot. He jogged down the slope at a shuffling
trot, grinning tolerantly at the pantomime below.

He of the bandy-legs stopped, evidently out of breath; the stallion stopped
also, snorting defiance. Rowdy heard him plainly, even at that distance. The
horse arched his neck and watched the man warily, ready to be off at the
first symptom of hostilities--and Rowdy observed that a short rope hung from
his halter, swaying as he moved.

Bandy-legs seemed to have an idea; he turned and scuttled to the nearest
cabin, returning with what seemed a basin of oats, for he shook it
enticingly and edged cautiously toward the horse. Rowdy could imagine him
coaxing, with hypocritically endearing names, such as "Good old boy!" and
"Steady now, Billy"--or whatever the horse's name might be. Rowdy chuckled
to himself, and hoped the horse saw through the subterfuge.

Perhaps the horse chuckled also; at any rate, he stood quite still, equally
prepared to bounce away on the instant or to don the mask of docility.
Bandy-legs drew nearer and nearer, shaking the basin briskly, like an old
woman sifting meal. The horse waited, his nostrils quivering hungrily at the
smell of the oats, and with an occasional low nicker.

Bandy-legs went on tiptoes--or as nearly as he could in the snow--the basin
at arm's length before. The dainty, flaring nostrils sniffed tentatively,
dipped into the basin, and snuffed the oats about luxuriously--till he felt