There was a pole manger running along the front of the stalls, a feed-box for grain in each horse's compartment, a partition of poles the height of the manger separating stall from stall. Simpson recognized in the occupant of the stall into which he had lowered himself from the window, the horse he had been trying to break to harness on the morning of Waco Johnson's advent. It yanked back on its neck-rope desperately as if it meant to hang itself when he plumped through the hole at its head.
Tom attempted to assure the horse, which didn't appear to have any recollection of him, or at least any friendly remembrance. It eased off on the rope, but stood squatting as if to make a jump for the hole in the wall, its eyes bulging, blowing wild whoofs of alarm through its distended nostrils. Tom felt there never could be any lasting friendship between himself and that animal. He gave it a dig in the floating ribs, jolting a grunt out of it that cut off its frightened blowing, which he could not help believing was all a vindictive pretense. He believed that cuss was better pleased to be stolen than left at home.
While he didn't want to get very far away from that hole, Simpson knew the fool horse would surely betray his presence to anybody who might come into the stable. That fellow driving the horses into the corral might bring
