I had
ridden over a hundred of the best of them, but when any one
appealed to me, even my own dear brother, I was as dumb as an
oyster about a horse. Tolleston, especially, cursed, raved, and
importuned me to help him get a good private mount, but I was as
innocent as I was immovable. The trip home from Dodge was no
pleasure jaunt, and now I was determined to draw extra pay in
getting the cream of that horse herd. There were other features
governing my actions: Flood was indifferent; Forrest, at times,
was cruel to horses, and had I helped my brother, I might have
been charged with favoritism. Dave Sponsilier was a good
horseman, as his selections proved, and I was not wasting any
love and affection on Archie Tolleston that day, anyhow.
That no undue advantage should be taken, Lovell kept tally of
every horse cut out, and once each foreman had taken his number,
he was waved out of the herd. I did the selecting of my own, and
with the assistance of one man, was constantly waiting my turn.
With all the help he could use, Tolleston was over half an hour
making his selections, and took the only blind horse in the
entire herd. He was a showy animal, a dapple gray, fully fifteen
hands high, bred in north Texas, and belonged to one of the whole
remudas bought in Dodge. At the time of his purchase, neither
Lovell nor Flood detected anything wrong, and no one could see
anything in the eyeball which would indicate he was moon-eyed.
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