The driver gave a slight tug on one rein and the wagon started turning. Jim was so interested and delighted that he almost lost his seat in the tree. The strange wagon and all those horses were coming in their yard! Almost doubting his eyes, he saw the vehicle progress down the lane and come to a halt, the long string of horses bunching up behind the wagon until they too finally stopped. The old man climbed down from his high perch and looked around inquisitively. Seeing no one in the yard he started toward the house.

“There’s nobody home but me,” shouted Jim loudly.

The stranger turned around to look toward the orchard, and Jim got his first good view of the visitor. He was a tall stringy individual with a long gray handle-bar mustache that drooped from his upper lip and hid much of the lower part of his face. He was obviously a very old man, but there was nothing old about his movements nor the way his bright eyes searched in the direction from which the voice had come. He looked puzzled, for all he could see was apple blossoms.

“And where are you?” he asked.

“I’m up here in a tree,” said Jim, poking his black thatched head as far through its frame of apple blossoms as he dared. “The bull won’t let me climb down.”

“Treed are you?” asked the man, laughing at what Jim didn’t think was a funny situation. “Just how mean is that bull?”

“Dad handles him without any trouble,” replied Jim. “Once in a while he has to hit him on the nose with a stick.”

“Be with you in a minute.” The stranger hunted around until he found a big piece of wood for a club.

The bull decided he wasn’t quite so ferocious when he saw a determined man approaching with a sizable club. He gave a few disgruntled snorts and then ambled off to the far end of the orchard. Thankfully Jim climbed down from his uncomfortable haven.

“Thanks, Mister,” he said with feeling. “Now I’ve got to find my watch.”

He hurried back along the path of his recent flight from the bull, searching the ground anxiously. About thirty feet from the tree he found his watch, lying bright and shining in the sun. He picked it up and held it to his ear. It was ticking away merrily. With a huge sigh of relief, Jim put the watch in his pocket.

“You really got me out of a mess,” he said, as they walked toward the gate. “I was trapped in that tree, the orchard gate was open, and my watch was lying on the ground.”

“That looks like a pretty good watch to be carrying around in your overalls.”

“It’s about the best watch in the world I guess,” said Jim proudly. “I don’t usually carry it every day.”

“Now you can do me a good turn,” said the stranger as they went out of the gate, fastening it this time. “I’d like to water my horses.”

“Sure, bring them over to the tank.”

Jim pumped more water into the big cement tank while the man led his horses over to drink. First he watered the team he was driving and then started with the string of horses behind the wagon.

“How come you’ve got so many horses?” asked Jim, his curiosity getting the better of his manners.

“I’m a horse trader. Not many traveling horse traders left any more. I usually have a lot more horses than these, but I sold fourteen yesterday.”

“Gee,” said Jim, “it must be a lot of fun to have so many horses.”

“It is if you like horses. It’s a lot of work too. Most people find two or three too much to take care of the way they should.”

“Do you live in that wagon?” asked Jim.

“All but about three months of the year,” replied the horse trader. “Now let me ask a question. When’s your pa going to be home?”

“About five o’clock, I ’spect,” Jim informed him. He looked at his watch. It was not quite three. He hadn’t been in that tree nearly so long as he had thought.

“Think your pa will want to trade or buy any horses?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Jim. “We’ve got two teams that are pretty good.”

The old man led the last horse to the trough for a drink. It was the small brown horse that Jim had noticed at the end of the string. It wasn’t an impressive horse at all. It was very thin, the hip bones making big bumps as if they were trying to push their way through the poor horse’s hide. There was an ugly, partially healed sore on his back, and he limped slightly on his right foreleg. His coat was a shaggy lusterless gray-brown. It was hard to tell what either the tail or mane was like as both were so matted with cockleburs and bits of weed. Lastly, the little horse didn’t hold his head as he should, but kept it cocked to one side as if he were looking at something very odd and interesting. To most horse fanciers this odd position of the head would have been the crowning defect of the long list, but it was just this feature that attracted Jim. The pony seemed to be looking at him quizzically. As Jim looked closer he was certain he saw a twinkle in the horse’s eye as if the animal were trying to share some sort of joke with him.

Jim stopped pumping water and moved closer to the little horse. He was so painfully thin and that sore looked so tender that Jim felt a surge of sympathy. He wished the horse could stay there and rest. The object of Jim’s compassion lifted his muzzle from the trough, shook his head, and snorted until he had blown the water from his nostrils. Then he looked squarely at the boy and winked. This time Jim was certain the horse grinned too. It was very plain what the pony meant. He seemed to say: “Thanks for the water and your kindness. I’m rather deceiving in appearance and am in much better shape than most people would think.”

Walking around to look at the horse from the other side, Jim spied a mark on the pony’s left shoulder. It was an H lying on its side like this:

“That’s a brand, isn’t it?” asked the boy excitedly.

“Yep. I reckon that is the lazy-H brand.”

“Where did he get it?”

“Well, this is a Western mustang. The man I bought him from said a carload of cow ponies was shipped in from Texas a couple of years ago. He picked up this feller at the sale.”

“A real Texas mustang,” said Jim, reverently.

“He’s a bit small even for a Western cow pony,” said the trader, sitting down on the edge of the water tank. “In fact there’s a lot of things about this horse that are different from most mustangs.”

“What?”

“Well,” drawled the old man, filling his pipe, “I’m in no hurry to get up on that jolting seat again. Just set here awhile and I’ll tell you a little about Western horses, specially this one.”

“Swell,” said Jim enthusiastically. “Can I hold the horse?”

The old man passed over the halter rope and Jim sat happily on the well platform holding on to the end of the tether. The horse looked at both of them for a moment and then calmly started to crop the grass.

“Western horses usually run pretty wild for three years or so,” began the old man. “Then they’re broken for riding. They break Western horses quick and rough and most of them buck every time they’re saddled. A ranch horse is worked only four or five months a year and then only three or four days a week. Most of them, except the favorites, never get to know a man real well and so usually they don’t show much affection.” He paused to relight his