Seems to
me he'd ought to be a purty good quarter-horse."
Bud hesitated. "I wouldn't mind running him, grandpa, if I
thought I could make something on him. I've got my stake to
make, and I want to make it before all my teeth fall out so I
can't chew anything but the cud of reflection on my lost
opportunities. If Smoky can run a few dollars into my pocket,
I'm with you."
Grandpa teetered forward and put out his hand. "Shake on
that, boy!" he cackled. "Pop Truman ain't too old to have
his little joke--and make it bring him in something, by
Christmas! You saddle up and we'll go try him out on a
quarter-mile--mebby a half, if he holds up good."
He poked a cigarette-stained forefinger against Bud's chest
and whispered slyly: "My son Dave, he 's got a horse in the
stable that's been cleanin' everything in the valley. I'll
slip him out and up the creektrail to the track, and you run
that horse of yourn agin him. Dave, he can't git a race outa
nobody around here, no more, so he won't run next Sunday.
We'll jest see how yore horse runs alongside Boise. I kin
tell purty well how you kin run agin the rest--Pop, he
ain't s' thick-headed they kin fool him much. What say we try
it?"
Bud stood back and looked him over. "You shook hands with me
on it," he said gravely.
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