Just count me out,” said Wilford as he lay there in the dirt,

A shoein’ rasp behind his ear, a hoof print on his shirt.

“I’ll handle this,” said Freddie, “You jus’ git outta the way.

This sorry bag of buzzard bait has met his match today.”

The horse weren’t much to look at, just the kind a trader’d buy

But you knew that he’d be trouble when you looked him in the eye.

It...