"Do you expect Smoky to show up the same day that horse
arrives?" he inquired mildly. "Pop, you'll have to prove to
me that he won't run Sunday--"
Pop snorted. "Seems to me like you do know a speedy horse
when you see one, young feller. Beats me't you been
overlookin' what you got under yore saddle right now. Boise,
he's the best runnin' horse in the valley--and that's why he
won't run next Sunday, ner no other Sunday till somebuddy
brings in a strange horse to put agin him. Dave, he won't
crowd ye fur a race, boy. You kin refuse to run yore horse
agin him, like the rest has done. I'll jest lope along t'day
and see what yours kin do."
"Well, all right, then." Bud waited for the old man to ride
ahead down the obscure trail that wound through the brush for
half a mile or so before they emerged into the rough border
of the creek bed. Pop reined in close and explained
garrulously to Bud how this particular stream disappeared
into the ground two miles above Little Lost, leaving the
wide, level river bottom bone dry.
Pop was cautious. He rode up to a rise of ground and scanned
the country suspiciously before he led the way into the creek
bed. Even then he kept close under the bank until they had
passed two of the quarter-mile posts that had been planted in
the hard sand.
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