Bill regarded Hi's hair critically.

"What color do you put onto your old brush?" he asked cautiously.

"'Tain't no difference. 'Tain't red, anyhow."

"Red! Well, not quite exactly," and Bill went off into a low, long,
choking chuckle, ejaculating now and then, "Red! Jee-mi-ny Ann! Red!"

"No, Hi," he went on, recovering himself with the same abruptness as he
used with his bronco, and looking at his friend with a face even more
than usually solemn, "your hayer ain't red, Hi; don't let any of your
relatives persuade you to that. 'Tain't red!" and he threatened to go
off again, but pulled himself up with dangerous suddenness. "It may be
blue, cerulyum blue or even purple, but red--!" He paused violently,
looking at his friend as if he found him a new and interesting object
of study upon which he could not trust himself to speak. Nor could he be
induced to proceed with the description he had begun.

But Hi, paying no attention to Bill's oration, took up the subject with
enthusiasm.

"She kin ride--she's a reg'lar buster to ride, ain't she, Bill?" Bill
nodded. "She kin bunch cattle an' cut out an' yank a steer up to any
cowboy on the range."

"Why, how big is she?"

"Big? Why, she's just a kid! 'Tain't the bigness of her, it's the nerve.
She's got the coldest kind of nerve you ever seen. Hain't she, Bill?"