"The same," said the doctor. "I think I can come to a gentleman's
understanding with him. A gentleman from the piebald's point of view is
one who is never unintentionally rude. He may change his mind this
morning--or he may break my back. One of the two is sure to happen."
In front of the house Dan Barry already sat on Satan with Black Bart
sitting nearby watching the face of his master. And beside them the
lantern-jawed cowpuncher held the bridle of the piebald mustang. Never
in the world was there a lazier appearing beast. His lower lip hung
pendulous, a full inch and a half below the upper. His eyes were rolled
so that hardly more than the whites showed. He seemed to stand asleep,
dreaming of some Nirvana for equine souls. And the only signs of life
were the long ears, which wobbled, occasionally, back and forth.
When the doctor mounted, the piebald limited all signs of interest to
opening one eye.
The doctor clucked. The piebald switched his tail. Satan, at a word from
Dan Barry, moved gracefully into a soft trot away from the house. The
doctor slapped his mount on the neck. An ear flicked back and forth. The
doctor stretched out both legs, and then he dug both spurs deep into the
flanks of the mustang.
It was a perfectly successful maneuvre. The back of the piebald changed
from an ugly humped line to a decidedly sharp parabola and the horse
left the ground with all four feet. He hit it again, almost in the
identical hoof-marks, and with all legs stiff.
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