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He worked in the dust of the smaller corral, with Croaker’s help, adapting his knowledge of eastern gentling the way he had mentally planned it during the days since he had accepted the job. With the excited and frightened colt roped to the steady mule Drew tried to think horse, feel horse, even be horse, shutting out all the rest of the world just as he had on the day of the race.
"Now ain’t they th’ purtiest things?" he inquired of the stable at large. "’Bout th’ best stock we’ve had here since th’ last time Don Cazar brought in a couple o’ hissen. Where’ll I put your plunder, mister?" He was already loosing Croaker’s pack. "You be stayin’ over to th’ Jacks?" Drew glanced up at the haymow from which Callie had just descended.
No-Tail, and with that he took the stick he intended for Grandpa Croaker’s cane, and put it under the bear’s legs, and he twisted the stick, Papa No-Tail did, and the first thing that bear knew he had been tripped up and turned over just like a pancake, and he fell on his nose and bumped it real hard.
“Let’s have another little dance!” suggested Bully. “No,” replied Bawly, “let’s jump down the well and have a drink of the new water that hasn’t any fishes in it.” So, without thinking what they were doing, down they leaped into the well, almost failing on Grandpa Croaker’s bald head, and carrying down with them the rope, by which they had been pulling up the pails of dirt.
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