Fifty is givin' him to you."
"So? Then I reckon I don't want him. I wa'n't lookin' for a present.
I was lookin' to buy a hoss."
The trader saw a real customer slipping through his fingers. "Yon can
put a halter on him for forty--cash."
"Nope. Your pardner here said forty,"--and Annersley smiled at Young
Pete. "I'll look him over ag'in for thirty."
Young Pete knew that they needed money badly, a fact that the trader
was apt to ignore when he was drinking. "You said I could sell him for
forty, or mebby less, for cash," complained Young Pete, slipping from
the pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel.
"You go lay down!" growled the trader, and he launched a kick that
jolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire. Pete was used to being
kicked, but not before an audience. Moreover, the hot ashes had burned
his hands. Pete's dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rose
bristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of the
trader. The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much.
Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shaking
with rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader.
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