The Last of the Plainsmen 



&quot; All hands ready to rustle,&quot; sang out Frank one 

 morning. &quot; Old Baldy s got to be shod.&quot; 



This brought us all, except Jones, out of the cabin, 

 to see the object of Frank s anxiety tied to a nearby 

 oak. At first I failed to recognize Old Baldy. Van 

 ished was the slow, sleepy, apathetic manner that 

 had characterized him; his ears lay back on his head; 

 fire flashed from his eyes. When Frank threw down 

 a kit-bag, which emitted a metallic clanking, Old 

 Baldy sat back on his haunches, planted his forefeet 

 deep in the ground and plainly as a horse could speak, 

 said&quot; No!&quot; 



&quot; Sometimes he s bad, and sometimes worse,&quot; 

 growled Frank. 



&quot; Shore he s plumb bad this mornin ,&quot; replied Jim. 



Frank got the three of us to hold Baldy s head and 

 pull him up, then he ventured to lift a hind foot over 

 his knee. Old Baldy straightened out his leg and 

 sent Frank sprawling into the dirt. Twice again 

 Frank patiently tried to hold a hind leg, with the 

 same result; and then he lifted a forefoot. Baldy 

 uttered a very intelligible snort, bit through Wallace s 

 glove, yanked Jim off his feet, and scared me so that 

 I let go his forelook. Then he broke the rope which 

 held him to the tree. There was a plunge, a scatter 

 ing of men, though Jim still valiantly held on to 



Baldy s head, and a thrashing of scrub pifion, where 



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