Excerpt from Whitey's Sunday Horse Uncle Torwal and Whitey were out to see how their range stock was getting along. Torwal was a slow-speaking fellow with a droopy red mustache, and a good many of the horses running in the Badlands belonged to him. Whitey, who was probably ten years old or thereabouts, had lived with him on the ranch for several years, almost since he could remember. He wore a cast-off Stetson hat of Torwal's and high-heeled riding boots from the same source. They lived alone like any two old sourdoughs and were a familiar sight at all the round-ups and in town of a Saturday, Torwal on a crop-cared black and Whitey on a pot-bellied old pinto named Spot. Torwal usually spoke of Whitey as his "sawed-off" foreman.

"It's a horse!" Whitey exclaimed. He and his cousin, Josie, looked down into the great hole caused by flood waters. For some time, Josie had been talking of little else except capturing and taming a wild horse. Whitey had tried to explain that there weren't any wild horses any more near Uncle Torwal's ranch. Now, looking at the trapped animal, they could see that his eyes were sunken and his ribs showed through his black hide. He was plastered with dirt, and there were patches of dried blood where ha had cut himself on his back and shoulders. His nostrils had been wired which made it hard for him to breathe, wild horse catchers did that so they could handle them easier. "Then he is a wild horse!" cried Josie. "I guess so," Whitey agreed. Whitey and Josie knew that they wanted to save the horse more than anything, but how to do it was going to take some hard figuring.

In trying to earn money for a new saddle, ten-year-old Whitey endures some serious mishaps.