She's a racer. She's sixty
hoss-power, and sometimes I reckon I could handle sixty hosses easier to
once than I could her. We was lopin' along out in the desert, 'bout
fifty miles an hour by the leetle clock on the dashboard, when all of a
sudden she lays back her ears and she bucks. I leans back and keeps her
head up, but it ain't no use. She gives a jump or two and says
'_Guzzuh!_' jest like that, and quits. I climbs out and looked her over.
She sure was balky. I was glad she said _somethin'_, if it was only
'Guzzuh,' instead of quittin' on me silent and scornful. Sounded like
she was apologizin' for stoppin' up like that. I felt of her chest and
she was pretty much het up. When she cooled off, I started her
easy--sort of grazin' along pretendin' we wasn't goin' to lope again.
When she got her second wind I give her her head, and she let out and
loped clean into the desert town, without makin' a stumble or castin' a
shoe. Paid three thousand for her in Los. She is guaranteed to do eighty
miles on the level, and she does a whole lot of other things that ain't
jest on the level. She'd climb a back fence if you spoke right to her. A
sand-storm ain't got nothin' on her when she gets her back up.
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