He was a big
fellow with broad, thick wrists, and a straight black eye. When he had
eaten, he broke into breezy conversation, and especially of a vicious
mustang he had ridden on a bet the day before.
"Speakin' of hosses, Buck," said his father, "they's a black out in
the shed right now that'd make your eyes jest nacherally pop out'n
their sockets. No more'n fifteen hands, but a reg'lar picture. Must be
greased lightnin'."
"I've heard talk of these streaks of greased lightnin'," said Buck,
with a touch of scorn, "but I'll stack old Mike agin the best of
them."
"An' there's a dog along with the hoss--a dog that's the nearest to a
wolf of any I ever seen."
There was a sudden change in Buck--a change to be sensed rather than
definitely noted with the eye. It was a stiffening of his body--an
alertness of which he was at pains to make no show. For almost
immediately he began to whistle softly, idly, his eyes roving
carelessly across the wall while he tilted back in his chair. Dan
dropped his hand close to the butt of his gun. Instantly, the eyes of
Buck flashed down and centered on Dan for an instant of keen scrutiny.
Certainly Buck had connected that mention of the black horse and the
wolf-dog with a disturbing idea.
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