knee into the refractory ribs and crushed them to the breaking point. So the pinto with a sigh expelled his breath and allowed the cinching to be properly finished. The tender care had for a moment given him a thought that this man was no master; but the knee in the ribs removed all doubts. And from that moment the pinto was ready to die for Andy.
The rider, after this little exhibition of temper, stepped back and looked his horse over more carefully. The pinto had many good points. He had ample girth of chest at the cinches, where lung capacity is best measured. He had rather short forelegs, which promised weight-carrying power and some endurance, and he had a fine pair of sloping shoulders. But his belly was a trifle fine drawn, and, though he might stand a drive of a day or two admirably, it was very doubtful if he could endure a long siege of such life as Andy was apt to live. Also, the croup of the pinto sloped down too much, and he had a short neck. Andy knew perfectly well that no horse with a short neck can run fast for any distance. He had chosen the pinto for endurance, and endurance he undoubtedly had; but there was no question that he must have a horse superior in every respect—a horse capable of running his distance and also able to spurt like a trained racer for short distances. For many a time in his life he would need a horse which could put him out of short-shooting distance, and do it quickly. And many a time he would face a long grind across mountain and desert, and both together.
There were no illusions in the mind of Andrew Lanning about what lay before him. Uncle Jasper had told him too many tales of his own experiences on the trail in enemy country.
"There's three things," the old man had often said,
