"Quit it!" cried Pete presently. "You'll be goin' on
crutches afore night if you keep that up.--And so'll I," he added.
Rowdy immediately stopped and turned his mournful eye on Pete.
If the trot had been the rhythmic _one, two, three, four_, Pete could
have ridden and rolled cigarettes without spilling a flake of tobacco;
but the trot was a sort of _one, two--almost three_, then, whump!
_three_ and a quick _four_, and so on, a decidedly irregular meter in
Pete's lyrical journey toward new fields and fairer fortune. "I'll
sure make Andy sit up!" he declared as the Concho buildings loomed
beneath the cool, dark-green outline of the trees. He dismounted to
open and close a gate. A half-mile farther he again dismounted to open
and close another gate. From there on was a straightaway road to the
ranch-buildings. Pete gathered himself together, pushed his hat down
firmly--it was new and stiff--and put Rowdy to a high lope. This was
something like it! Possibly Rowdy anticipated a good rest, and hay.
In any event, he did his best, rounding into the yard and up to the
house like a true cow-pony.
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