Dad reckoned Ned was the better of the two.

He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a gentle disposition, and a bald-face, and a bumble-foot, and a raw wither, and a sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"-- a habit that discounted his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't at home, the women could n't saddle him to run the cows in.

Whenever he saw the saddle or heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to flinch.

Put the cloth on his back--folded or otherwise--and, no matter how smart you might be, it would be off before you could cover it with the saddle, and he would n't have flicked it with his tail, or pulled it off with his teeth, or done anything to it.

He just flinched--made the skin on his back--where there was any--QUIVER.