d. Yet he seemed happier after having made his selection, and
went down the stairs, humming softly.

Out to the barn he went, lantern in hand. This time he made no
comparison of horses but went directly to an ugly-headed roan, long of
leg, vicious of eye, thin-shouldered, and with hips that slanted sharply
down. No one with a knowledge of fine horse-flesh could have looked on
this brute without aversion. It did not have even size in its favour. A
wild, free spirit, perhaps, might be the reason; but the animal stood
with hanging head and pendant lower lip. One eye was closed and the
other only half opened. A blind affection, then, made him go to this
horse first of all.

No, his greeting was to jerk his knee sharply into the ribs of the roan,
which answered with a grunt and swung its head around with bared teeth,
like an angry dog. "Damn your eyes!" roared the hoarse voice of Steve
Nash, "stand still or I'll knock you for a goal!"

The ears of the mustang flattened close to its neck and a devil of hate
came up in its eyes, but it stood quiet, while Nash went about at a
judicious distance and examined all the vital points. The hoofs were
sound, the backbone prominent, but not a high ridge from famine or much
hard riding, and the indomitable hate in the eyes of the mustang seemed
to please the cowpuncher.

It was a struggle to bridle the beast, which was accomplished only by
grinding the points of his knuckles into a tender part of the jowl to
make the locked teeth open.

In saddling, the knee came into play again, rapping the ribs of the
brute repeatedly before the wind, which swelled out the chest to false
proportions, was expelled in a sudden grunt, and the cinch whipped up
taut. After that Nash dodged the flying heels, chose his time, and
vaulted into the saddle.

The mustang trotted quietly out of the barn. Perhaps he had had his fill
of bucking on that treacherous, slippery wooden floor, but once outside
he turned loose the full assortment of the cattle-pony's tricks. It was
only ten minutes, but while it lasted the cursing of Nash was loud and
steady, mixed with the crack of his murderous quirt against the roan's
flanks. The bucking ended as quickly as it had begun, and they started
at a long canter over the trail.

CHAPTER XII

THE FIRST DAY

Mile after mile of the rough trail fell behind him, and still the pony
shambled along at a loose trot or a swinging canter; the steep upgrades
it took at a