Boise, he's the best runnin' horse in the valley--and that's why he won't run next Sunday, ner no other Sunday till somebuddy brings in a strange horse to put agin him.

Dave, he won't crowd ye fur a race, boy.

You kin refuse to run yore horse agin him, like the rest has done.

I'll jest lope along t'day and see what yours kin do." "Well, all right, then." Bud waited for the old man to ride ahead down the obscure trail that wound through the brush for half a mile or so before they emerged into the rough border of the creek bed.

Pop reined in close and explained garrulously to Bud how this particular stream disappeared into the ground two miles above Little Lost, leaving the wide, level river bottom bone dry.
Pop was cautious.