The old man smiled broadly. Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard to
catch.

"You kin ride him," said Annersley. "'Course, if he pitches you--"
And the old man chuckled.

"Pitch me? Say, pardner, I'm a ridin' son-of-a-gun from Powder River
and my middle name is 'stick.' I kin ride 'm comin' and goin'--crawl
'm on the run and bust 'm wide open every time they bit the dirt. Turn
me loose and hear me howl. Jest give me room and see me split the air!
You want to climb the fence when I 'm a-comin'!"

"Where did you git that little song?" queried Annersley.

"Why--why, that's how the fellas shoot her over to the round-up at
Magdalena and Flag. Reckon I been there!"

"Well, don't you bust ole Apache too hard, son. He's a mighty
forgivin' hoss--but he's got feelin's."

"Huh! You're a-joshin' me agin. I seen your whiskers kind o' wiggle.
You think I'm scared o' that hoss?"

"Just a leetle mite, son. Or you wouldn't 'a' sung that there
high-chin song. There's some good riders that talk lots. But the best
riders I ever seen, jest rode 'em--and said nothin'."

"Like when you set on my other pop, eh?"