When I woke up it was morning, and Milk River was prodding me with a finger.
“You figuring on getting up for breakfast, or would you like it brung to you?”
I moved cautiously until I found I was all in one piece.
“I can crawl that far.”
He sat down on a bunk across the room and rolled a cigarette while I put on my shoes—the only things, except my hat, I hadn’t slept in. He had something to say, so I gave him time, lacing my shoes slowly.
Presently he said it:
“I always had the idea that nobody that couldn’t sit a horse some couldn’t amount to nothing much. I ain’t so sure now. You can’t ride any, and never will. You don’t seem to have the least notion what to do after you get in the middle of the animal! But, still and all, a hombre that’ll let a bronc dirty him up three times handrunning and then ties into a gent who tries to keep him from making it permanent, ain’t exactly hay wire.”
He lit his cigarette, and broke the match in half.
“I got a sorrel horse you can have for a hundred dollars. He don’t take no interest in handling cows, but he’s all horse, and he ain’t mean.”
I went into my money-belt—slid five twenties over into his lap.
“Better look at him first,” he objected.