"There was just three waterin' places left on that range. One on Lynch Creek, one under Bald Mountain, other way over by Sugar Block. We fenced the first two in tight so nothin' but birds could get to 'em, built a corral around th' third, that was clean across th' valley there,"--indicating as he talked-"an' left th' gate open."
"Well, first day all th' horses on th' valley collected over other side by those fenced holes, wonderin' what was up,"--he scratched his head and grinned at the memory, "an' Tim and I set out by Sugar Block in th' sun waitin'.... Lord, it was hot, an' there wasn't no shade to be had. That night, some of the old mares come trailin' across th' valley leadin' their colts, whinnerin' when they smelled water. We was sleepin' nearby and could kind 'a' see 'em by th' starlight. They nosed around th' corral and finally went in and drunk. Next day, th' others was hangin' in sight, suspicious, an' too thirsty to graze. All of 'em stood head toward th' water, lookin' an' lookin' hours at a time. 'Long toward night in they come, one at a time, finally, with a rush; unbranded mares, a few big young colts, all drove to it by thirst.
"Old Abe, though, he stood up on th' far rim of a wash an' watched an' hollered an' trotted back an' forth. He wouldn't come; not much! We had a glass an' could see him switch his tail an' run back a little ways with his ears flat down. Then, he'd stop an' turn his head an' stick up his ears stiff as starch; then he'd turn 'round an' walk towards us, slow for a few steps. Never got within pistol shot, though. All next day he hung there alone, watchin' us, dryin' up to his bones under that sun. Antelope come up, a dozen in a bunch, an' hung near him all afternoon. Next mornin' come th' sun an' there was Mr. Abe, standin' with his neck straight in th' air, ears peekin' at our camp to see if we was there yet. Gosh, how hot it got that day!" He rose, drew a bucket of water from the well and lifting it in his big hands, drank deeply from the rim at the memory.
"I thought it was goin' to burn th' valley up.
"'He's too damn good a sport to die,' Tim said. 'He'll quit when he's licked.'
The man walked to the sorrel, who stood still idly switching at flies. He threw his arm about the great head and the horse, swaying forward, pushed against his body with playful affection until Bayard was shoved from his footing.