He was careless, also, and venturing too close--the black whirled with his sudden, catlike agility, and two black hoofs lashed within a hair's breadth of the man's shoulder.

There was a shout from the crowd, but Jerry Strann stepped back and smiled so that his teeth showed.
"Boys," he said, but he was really speaking to himself, "there's nothing in the world I want as bad as I want that hoss.

Nothing! I'm going to buy him; where's the owner ?" "Don't look like a hoss a man would want to sell, Jerry," came a suggestion from the cavalcade, who had dismounted and now pressed behind their leader.
Jerry favoured the speaker with another of his enigmatic smiles: "Oh," he chuckled, "he'll sell, all right! Maybe he's inside.

You gents stick out here and watch for him; I'll step inside." And he strode through the swinging doors of the saloon.
It was a dull time of day for O'Brien, so he sat with his feet on the edge of the bar and sipped a tall glass of beer; he looked up at the welcome click of the doors, however, and then was instantly on his feet.
The good red went out of his face and the freckles over his nose stood out like ink marks.
"There's a black hoss outside," said Jerry, "that I'm going to buy.
Where's the owner ?" "Have a drink," said the bartender, and he forced an amiable smile.
"I got business on my hands, not drinking," said Jerry Strann.
"Lost your chestnut ?" queried O'Brien in concern.
"The chestnut was all right until I seen the black.

And now he ain't a hoss at all.