the boy, had incalculable influence upon his character. She
taught him much, ways and things, words and feelings that became an
integral part of his life.

At last the long winter ended. With spring came the gales of wind
which, though no longer cold, were terrible in their violence. Many a
night Panhandle lay awake, shrinking beside his mother, fearing the
shack would blow away over their heads. Many a day the sun was
obscured, and nothing could be cooked, no work done while the dust
storm raged.

As spring advanced, with a lessening of the tornadoes, a new and
fascinating game came into Panhandle's life. It was to sit at the one
little window and watch the cowboys ride by. How he came to worship
them! They were on their way to the spring roundups. His father had
told him all about them. Panhandle would strain his eyes to get a
first glimpse of them, to count the shaggy prancing horses, the lithe
supple riders with their great sombreros, their bright scarfs, guns and
chaps, and boots and spurs. Their lassos! How they fascinated
Panhandle! Ropes to whirl and throw at a running steer! That was a
game he resolved to play when he grew up. And his mother, discovering
his interest, made him a little reata and taught him how to throw it,
how to make loops and knots. She told him how her people had owned
horses, thrown lassos, run cattle.

Panhandle was always watching for the cowboys. When they passed by he
would run to the other side of the shack where there was a knothole
stuffed with a rag, and through this he would peep until he was blinded
by dust. These were full days for the lad, rousing in him wonder and
awe, eagerness and fear--strange longings for he knew not what.

Then one day his father brought home a black pony with three white feet
and a white spot on his face. Panhandle was in rapture. For him! He
could have burst for very joy, but he could not speak. It developed
that his mother would not let him ride the pony except when she led it.
This roused as great a grief as possession was joy. A beautiful little
pony he could not ride! Ideas formed in his mind, scintillated and
grew into dark purpose.

One day he stole Curly, and led him out of sight behind the barn, and
mounting him rode down to the spring. Panhandle found himself alone.
He was free. He was on the back of a horse. Mighty and incalculable
fact!

Curly felt the spirit of that occasion. After drinking at the spring
he