His eastern course Nash pursued for a mile or more, and then swung sharp
to the south. He was weary, like his horse, and he made no attempt to
start a sudden burst of speed. He let the pony go on at the same
tireless jog, clinging like a bulldog to the trail.
About midday he sighted a small house cuddled into a hollow of the hills
and made toward it. As he dismounted, a tow-headed, spindling boy
lounged out of the doorway and stood with his hands shoved carelessly
into his little overall pockets.
"Hello, young feller."
"'Lo, stranger."
"What's the chance of bunking here for three or four hours and gettin' a
good feed for the hoss?"
"Never better. Gimme the hoss; I'll put him up in the shed. Feed him
grain?"
"No, you won't put him up. I'll tend to that."
"Looks like a bad 'un."
"That's it."
"But a sure goer, eh?"
"Yep."
He led the pony to the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed.
The horse first rolled on the dirt floor and then started methodically
on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not "off his feed,"
Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy.
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