For nothing of its size that lives is so deft in
dodging as the cow-pony. That part of El Sangre's education was not
completed, however, for only the actual work of a round-up could give him
the faultless surety of a good cow-pony. And, indeed, the ranchman
declared him useless for real roundup work.
"A no-good, high-headed fool," he termed El Sangre, having sprained his
bank account with an attempt to buy the stallion from Terry the day
before.
At the end of a fortnight the first stranger passed, and ill-luck made it
a man from Craterville. He knew Terry at a glance, and the next morning
the rancher called Terry aside.
The work of that season, he declared, was going to be lighter than he had
expected. Much as he regretted it, he would have to let his new hand go.
Terry taxed him at once to get at the truth.
"You've found out my name. That's why you're turning me off. Is that the
straight of it?"
The sudden pallor of the other was a confession.
"What's names to me?" he declared. "Nothing, partner. I take a man the
way I find him. And I've found you all right. The reason I got to let you
go is what I said.
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