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Updated: June 12, 2025
O its hily morral, I spoze, when she larfs wildly and sez, "gin me the daggurs Ile let his bowels out," or wurds to that effeck I say, this is awl, strickly, propper I spoze? That Jack Fawlstarf is likewise a immoral old cuss, take him how ye may, and Hamlick is as crazy as a loon. Thare's Richurd the Three, peple think heze grate things, but I look upon him in the lite of a monkster.
But she don't stand any too steady when a poor man wants to fork her and ride out of trouble. He's got to have a morral full of grain to git her to stand and even then she's like to pitch him if she gits a chanct. I figure she's a bronco that never was broke right." "Well," and Owen smiled, "we got pitched this time. We lost our case." "You kind o' stepped up on the wrong side," laughed Pete.
As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the coming night, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and, returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. Dex munched contentedly.
The flock was a small one, and we finished at three in the afternoon; so Bud brought from the morral on his saddle horn, coffee and a coffeepot and a big hunk of bread and some side bacon. Mr. Mills, the ranch owner and my old friend, rode away to the ranch with his force of Mexican trabajadores. While the bacon was frizzling nicely, there was the sound of horses' hoofs behind us.
Waring took the morral of grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it. The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if you thought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could make you forget to feed that cayuse." "How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring. "Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to his assistant.
Somewhere in the far hills the bucks were running again. A little venison would be a welcome change from a fairly steady diet of beef. Bailey saddled up, and hung his rifle under the stirrup-leather. He tucked a compact lunch in his saddle-pockets, filled a morral with grain and set off in the direction of the Blue Range. Once on the way and his restlessness evaporated.
But we have no time to lose. Once more, Señor Herrera, open the door, and that quickly." "My door does not open at your bidding," replied Don Manuel. "I give you two minutes to draw off your followers, and, if you are not gone by that time, you shall be fired upon." "Morral," said the officer to one of his men, "your horse is a kicker, I believe. Try the strength of the door."
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