"What you gaspin' about?" queried Collie.

"Nothin', kid. You can get hosses ready for all the ladies for to-morrow mornin' at six sharp. Sabe? I got orders to send you over with 'em.

Mebby you're some proud now, eh? Well, don't fall off Apache pertendin'

you're so polite you can't spit."

"What you sore about, Brand?"

"I was thinkin' what a slashin' string of riders we got. Here a little old ranch like the Oro says they'll give a hoss to any Moonstoner what kin stay on him for two minutes. It's plumb sickenin'. Kids! Jest kids, on this ranch."

"That so? Say, Brand, you ain't got rid of so much English talk at once since I been here. You ought to talk more. You keep too quiet. Talking sociable will help to take the wrinkles out of your neck."

"You talk so much you'll never live to get any."

"Say, Brand."

"Uhuh."

"Will you lend me the Chola spurs and that swell quirt old Miguel plaited for you, and your Mexican bridle, just for to-morrow?"

"So that's what you been lovin' up to me for, eh?"

"Lovin' up to you, you darned old--darned old--_dude_, you."

"Hold on! You said it! Take the spurs! Take the quirt! Take the bridle!

Take the hat and gloves with the silk roses on! Anybody that's got nerve enough to call _me_ a _dude_ can take anything I got. Say, you don't want to borrow a pair of _pants_, do you?"

Honors were about even when Collie left the bunk-house, his arms laden with the foreman's finery. He colored to his hair as he saw Louise coming toward him. He fumbled at the gate, opened it, and stood aside for her to pa.s.s. As she smiled and thanked him, he heard his name called.

"Hey!" shouted Williams, coming suddenly from the bunk-house. "Hey, Collie! You went away without them pants! I'll lend 'em to you--"

Collie, his face flaming, strode down the trail, the blood drumming in his ears.

CHAPTER XXII

THE YUMA COLT

The Oro Rancho sent out word that the fiftieth year of its existence would be celebrated with an old-fashioned Spanish barbecue. The invitation was general, including every one within a radius of fifty miles.

Added to the natural interest in good things to eat and drink was that of witnessing the pony races. Each rancher would bring, casually, almost accidentally, as it were, one pony that represented its owner's idea of speed and quality. No set programme offered, which made the races all the more interesting in that they were genuine.

The Oro Ranch had long ago established and proudly maintained a reputation for breeding the best saddle-and work-stock in Southern California. In fact, the ranch survived the compet.i.tion of the automobile chiefly because it was the only important stock-raising ranch in the southland.

Good feeling went even so far as to include the sheep-ranchers of the old Spanish Grant, by special invitation.

It was the delight and pride of native Californians to ride their best saddle-horses on such occasions. True, motor-cars came from the city and from the farthest homes, but locally saddle-horses of all sizes and kinds were in evidence. Sleek bays with "Kentucky" written in every rippling muscle, single-footed in beside heavy mountain ponies, well boned, broad of knee, strong of flank, and docile; lean mustangs of the valley, short-coupled buckskins with the endurance of live rawhide; Mexican pintos, restless and gay in carved leather, and silver trappings; scrawny stolid cayuses that looked half-starved, but that could out-eat and out-last many a better-built horse; they all came, and their riders were immediately made welcome.

Under the trees, along the corrals and fences, in and around the stables, stood the ponies, heads tossing, bits jingling, stamping, thoroughly alive to the importance of the festive occasion, and filling the eye with an unforgettable picture--a living vignette of the old days of the range and riata.

Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Marshall, Louise, Dr. Marshall, and Walter Stone were among the earlier arrivals. A half-dozen men sprang to take their horses as they rode up, but Collie gathered the bridle-reins and led the ponies to the shade of the pepper trees. Then he wandered over to the corrals.

His eyes glowed as he watched the sleek ponies dodging, wheeling, circling like a battalion, and led by a smooth-coated, copper-hued mare, young, lithe, straight-limbed, and as beautifully rounded as a Grecian bronze. He moistened his lips as he watched her. He pushed back his hat, felt for tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. This was the renowned "Yuma colt," the outlaw. He wanted her. She was a horse in a thousand.

In some strange way he was conscious that Louise stood beside him, before he turned and raised his sombrero.

"More beautiful than strong men or beautiful women," said Louise.

"That's so, Miss Louise. Because they just live natural and act natural.

And that copper-colored mare,--she's only a colt yet,--there's a horse a man would be willing to work seven years for like the man in the Bible did for his wife."

Louise smiled. "Would you work seven years for her?" she asked.

"I would, if I had to," he said enthusiastically.

"Of course, because you really love horses, don't you?"

"Better than anything else. Of course, there are mean ones. But a real good horse comes close to making an ordinary man feel ashamed of himself. Why, see what a horse will do! He will go anywhere--work all day and all night if he has to--run till he breaks his heart to save a fellow's life, and always be a friend. A horse never acts like eight hours was his day's work. He is willing at any time and all the time--and self-respectin' and clean. I reckon a knowin' horse just plumb loves a man that is good to him."

Louise, her gray eyes wide and pensive, gazed at the young cowboy. "How old is the colt?" she asked.

"They say three years. But she's older than that in brains. She is leading older horses than her."

"Then if you worked seven years for her, she would be ten years old before you owned her."

"You caught me there. I didn't think of that."

"Uncle Walter says she is outlaw. I believe she could be tamed. Boyar was pretty wild before he was broken to ride."

"If you want that pony, Miss Louise, she's yours. I guess I could break her."

"They won't sell her. No, I was only romancing. Isn't she beautiful! She seems to be almost listening to us. What a head and what a quick, intelligent eye! Oh, you wonderful horse!" And laughing, Louise threw a kiss to the Yuma colt. "I must go. I came over to see the horses before the crowd arrived."

Collie stood hat in hand watching Louise as she strolled toward the ranch-house. He saw her stop and pat Boyar.

"I kind of wish I was a horse myself," he said whimsically. "Either the black or the outlaw. She treats them both fine."

Brand Williams, Bud Light, Parson Long, Billy Dime, and Miguel rode up, talking, joking, laughing.

"Fall to the kid!" said Miguel, indicating Collie. "I guess I'm scalded if he ain't nailed to the fence. He's just eating his head off thinking about the Yuma horse he da.s.sent ride. No? Eh, Collie?"

"h.e.l.lo, Miguel. Nope. I'm taking lessons in tendin' to my own business--like them." And Collie nodded toward the horses.

"Ain't he purty?" said Billy Dime. "All fussed up and walkin' round like a new rooster introducin' hisself to a set of strange hens. Oh, pshaw!"

"And you're making a noise like one of the hens trying to get the notice of the new rooster, I guess."

"Well, seem' I got the notice, come on over and I'll show you where they keep the ice--with things on it," said Billy Dime.