because the owner had fed from it carelessly; but in the corral were five or six fine horses—wild fellows with bright eyes and long forelocks. They had the long necks of speed, and lithe, strong bodies. Andy looked upon them wistfully. Not one of them but was worth the price of three of the pinto; but as for money there was not five dollars in the pocket of Andy.
Stripping the saddle from the pinto, he put it under the shed and left the mustang to feed and find water in the small pasture. Then he went with the bridle, that immemorial sign of one who seeks hospitality in the West, toward the house. He was met halfway by a tall, strong man of middle age or more. There was no hat on his head, which was covered with a shock of brown hair much younger than the face beneath it. He beheld Andy without enthusiasm.
"You figure on layin' over here for the night, stranger?" he asked.
"That's it," said Andy.
"I'll tell you how it is," said the big man in the tone of one who is willing to argue a point. "We ain't got a very big house—you see it—and it's pretty well filled right now. If you was to slope over the hills there you'd find Gainorville inside of ten miles."
Andy explained that he was at the end of a hard ride. He pointed to the pinto, which, in spite of a roll in the pasture, still bore the distinct outlines of the saddle, black with sweat, and all the rest of him dusted with salt, where the perspiration had come out and repeatedly dried in layers. "Ten more miles would kill the pinto," he said simply. "But if you don't mind, I'll have a bit of chow and then turn in out there in the shed. That won't crowd you in your sleeping quarters, and it'll be fine for me."
The big man opened his mouth to say something more.
