Shorty did a little professional laughing, and began to walk toward his saddle. “Give you thirty dollars,” repeated Balaam, picking a stone up and slinging it into the river. “How far do yu’ call it to Drybone?” Shorty remarked, stooping to investigate the bucking-strap on his saddle--a superfluous performance, for Pedro never bucked. “You won’t have to walk,” said Balaam. “Stay all night, and I’ll send you over comfortably in the morning, when the wagon goes for the mail.” “Walk?” Shorty retorted. “Drybone’s twenty-five miles. Pedro’ll put me there in three hours and not know he done it.” He lifted the saddle on the horse’s back. “Come, Pedro,” said he. “Come, Pedro!” mocked Balaam. There followed a little silence. “No, sir,” mumbled Shorty, with his head under Pedro’s belly, busily cinching. “A hundred dollars is bottom figures.” Balaam, in his turn, now duly performed some professional laughing, which was noted by Shorty under the horse’s belly. He stood up and squared round on Balaam. “Well, then,” he said, “what’ll yu give for him?” “Thirty dollars,” said Balaam, looking far off into the sky, as Shorty had looked. “Oh, come, now,” expostulated Shorty. It was he who now did the feeling for an offer and this was what Balaam liked to see. “Why yes,” he said, “thirty,” and looked surprised that he should have to mention the sum so often. “I thought yu’d quit them first figures,” said the cow-puncher, “for yu’ can see I ain’t goin’ to look at em.” Balaam climbed on the fence and sat there “I’m not crying for your Pedro,” he observed dispassionately. “Only it struck me you were dead broke, and wanted to raise cash and keep yourself going till you hunted up a job and could buy him back.” He hooked his right thumb inside his waistcoat pocket. “But I’m not cryin’ for him,” he repeated. “He’d stay right here, of course. I wouldn’t part with him. Why does he stand that way? Hello!” Balaam suddenly straightened himself, like a man who has made a discovery. “Hello, what?” said Shorty, on the defensive. Balaam was staring at Pedro with a judicial frown. Then he stuck out a finger at the horse, keeping the thumb hooked in his pocket. So meagre a gesture was felt by the ruffled Shorty to be no just way to point at Pedro. “What’s the matter with that foreleg there?” said Balaam. “Which? Nothin’s the matter with it!” snapped Shorty. Balaam climbed down from his fence and came over with elaborate deliberation. He passed his hand up and down the off foreleg. Then he spit slenderly. “Mm!” he said thoughtfully; and added, with a shade of sadness, “that’s always to be expected when they’re worked too young.” Shorty slid his hand slowly over the disputed leg. “What’s to be expected?” he inquired--“that they’ll eat hearty? Well, he does.” At this retort the Virginian permitted himself to laugh in audible sympathy. “Sprung,” continued Balaam, with a sigh. “Whirling round short when his bones were soft did that. Yes.”