Balaam accompanied his guest, Shorty, when he went to the pasture to saddle up and depart. “Got a rope?” he asked the guest, as they lifted down the bars. “Don’t need to rope him. I can walk right up to Pedro. You stay back.” Hiding his bridle behind him, Shorty walked to the river-bank, where the pony was switching his long tail in the shade; and speaking persuasively to him, he came nearer, till he laid his hand on Pedro’s dusky mane, which was many shades darker than his hide. He turned expectantly, and his master came up to his expectations with a piece of bread. “Eats that, does he?” said Balaam, over the bars. “Likes the salt,” said Shorty. “Now, n-n-ow, here! Yu’ don’t guess yu’ll be bridled, don’t you? Open your teeth! Yu’d like to play yu’ was nobody’s horse and live private? Or maybe yu’d prefer ownin’ a saloon?” Pedro evidently enjoyed this talk, and the dodging he made about the bit. Once fairly in his mouth, he accepted the inevitable, and followed Shorty to the bars. Then Shorty turned and extended his hand. “Shake!” he said to his pony, who lifted his forefoot quietly and put it in his master’s hand. Then the master tickled his nose, and he wrinkled it and flattened his ears, pretending to bite. His face wore an expression of knowing relish over this performance. “Now the other hoof,” said Shorty; and the horse and master shook hands with their left. “I learned him that,” said the cow-boy, with pride and affection. “Say, Pede,” he continued, in Pedro’s ear, “ain’t yu’ the best little horse in the country? What? Here, now! Keep out of that, you dead-beat! There ain’t no more bread.” He pinched the pony’s nose, one quarter of which was wedged into his pocket. “Quite a lady’s little pet!” said Balaam, with the rasp in his voice. “Pity this isn’t New York, now, where there’s a big market for harmless horses. Gee-gees, the children call them.” “He ain’t no gee-gee,” said Shorty, offended. “He’ll beat any cow-pony workin’ you’ve got. Yu’ can turn him on a half-dollar. Don’t need to touch the reins. Hang ’em on one finger and swing your body, and he’ll turn.” Balaam knew this, and he knew that the pony was only a four-year-old. “Well,” he said, “Drybone’s had no circus this season. Maybe they’d buy tickets to see Pedro. He’s good for that, anyway.” Shorty became gloomy. The Virginian was grimly smoking. Here was something else going on not to his taste, but none of his business. “Try a circus,” persisted Balaam. “Alter your plans for spending cash in town, and make a little money instead.” Shorty having no plans to alter and no cash to spend, grew still more gloomy. “What’ll you take for that pony?” said Balaam. Shorty spoke up instantly. “A hundred dollars couldn’t buy that piece of stale mud off his back,” he asserted, looking off into the sky grandiosely. But Balaam looked at Shorty, “You keep the mud,” he said, “and I’ll give you thirty dollars for the horse.”