ff his back, so extensive that he never seemed to repeat. He stood
always as docilely as a camel to be saddled and bridled, with what
method in this apparent docility no man versed in horse philosophy ever
had been able to reason out. Perhaps it was that he had been born with a
spite against man, and this was his scheme for luring him on to his
discomfiture and disgrace.

It was an expectant little group that stood by to witness this
greenhorn's rise and fall. According to his established methods,
Whetstone would allow him to mount, still standing with that indifferent
droop to his head. But one who was sharp would observe that he was
rolling his old white eyes back to see, tipping his sharp ear like a
wildcat to hear every scrape and creak of the leather. Then, with the
man in the saddle, nobody knew what he would do.

That uncertainty was what made Whetstone valuable and interesting beyond
any outlaw in the world. Men grew accustomed to the tricks of ordinary
pitching broncos, in time, and the novelty and charm were gone. Besides,
there nearly always was somebody who could ride the worst of them. Not
so Whetstone. He had won a good deal of money for Jim, and everybody in
camp knew that thirty-five dollars wasn't more than a third of the value
that his owner put upon him.

There was boundless wonder among them, then, and no little admiration,
when this stranger who had come into that unlikely place on a bicycle
leaped into the saddle so quickly that old Whetstone was taken
completely by surprise, and held him with such a strong hand and stiff
rein that his initiative was taken from him.

The greenhorn's next maneuver was to swing the animal round till he lost
his head, then clap heels to him and send him off as if he had business
for the day laid out ahead of him.

It was the most amazing start that anybody ever had been known to make
on Whetstone, and the most startling and enjoyable thing about it was
that this strange, overgrown boy, with his open face and guileless
speech, had played them all for a bunch of suckers, and knew more about
riding in a minute than they ever had learned in their lives.

Jim Wilder stood by, swearing by all his obscene deities that if that
man hurt Whetstone, he'd kill him for his hide. But he began to feel
better in a little while. Hope, even certainty, picked up again.
Whetstone was coming to himself. Perhaps the old rascal had only been
elaborating his scheme a little at the star