Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that. "Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley. "Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five." "A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; is that correct?" "Yep." "And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?" "He sure is!" "All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful." Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr. Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for odd jobs of ropin' and such." "Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him." Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word. "Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly. "In Kentucky." "Hell, I thought you was from New York?" "I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five." "Was your folks hoss-traders?" "Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good saddle-horses, however." "Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I got just what you want." Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told. "I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly. "I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this morning," said Bartley. "With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your figure this outfit would come rather high." "I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig." "No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only taking you at your word." "I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three days! You'll git along in this country." "I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the bay?"