"He's wearin' hisself out. He ain't got much farther to go," said Billy
Dime, mounting and turning his pony. "Come on, kid. If he's alive
to-morrow mornin'--good enough."
"I think I'll stay awhile," said Collie. "Brand says he isn't worth
saving, but--I kind of like the cuss. He's different."
"Correct, nurse, he is. You can telephone me if the patient shows signs
of bitin' you. Keep tabs on his pulse--give him his whiskey regular, but
don't by no means allow him to set up in bed and smoke. I'll call again
nex' year. So long, sweetness."
"You go plump!" laughed Collie.
And Billy Dime rode over the hill singing a dolefully cheerful ditty
about burying some one on the "lo-o-ne prairee." To him a horse was
merely something useful, so long as it could go. When it couldn't go, he
got another that could.
Collie replenished the smoking fire, scraped some of the mud from the
colt's thick, winter coat, and heated a half-dozen large stones.
His brother cowmen would have laughed at these "tender ministrations,"
and Collie himself smiled as he recalled Billy Dime's parting
directions.
Collie placed the heated stones round the shivering animal, re-dried the
blanket at the fire, and covered the pitifully weak and panting
creature.
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