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Updated: August 5, 2024
With his reins well in hand, his lariat ready, and full of excitement, Billy waited for the horses to reach the stream, which they entered to quench their thirst. As every head was lowered and the nostrils driven deep into the cool waters, out of the thicket dashed the Boy Horse-Hunter, and the clattering hoofs startled the drove, and in confusion and fright they turned to fly.
"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the others, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone, how'd you like to ride for me?" Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied, slowly. "I can't stand to be tied down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know."
That had happened when he was ten years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he might not have survived. The last five years he had been a horse-hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah. Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies.
They're two as good handy gins as there is in the world. That little fat one you start her out with a bridle and enough tobacker after lost horses, and she'll foller 'em till she gets 'em, if it takes a week. Camps out at night anywhere she can get water, and gets her own grub lizards and young birds, and things like that. There ain't her equal as a horse-hunter in Australia.
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