te and cinched it till the pinto, full of suffering, drew great,
quiet gulps of breath and groaned. Swift, practiced, relentless, Mose
dragged at the latigo till the wide hair web embedded itself in the
pony's hide. Having coiled the rope neatly out of the way, while the
broncho stood with drooping head but with a dull red flame in his eyes,
Mose flung the rein over the pony's head. Then pinto woke up. With a
mighty sidewise bound he attempted to leave his rider, but Mose,
studiedly imperturbable, with left hand holding the reins and right hand
grasping the pommel, went with him as if that were the ordinary way of
mounting. Immense power was in the stiff-legged leaping of the beast.
His body seemed a ball of coiled steel springs. His "watch-eye" rolled
in frenzy. It seemed he wished to beat his head against his rider's face
and kill him. He rushed away with a rearing, jerking motion, in a series
of jarring bounds, snapping his rider like the lash of a whip, then
stopped suddenly, poised on his fore feet, with devilish intent to
discharge Mose over his head. With the spurs set deep into the quivering
painted hide of his mount Mose began plying the quirt like a flail. The
boys cheered and yelled with delight. It was one of their chief
recreations, this battle with a pitching broncho.

Suddenly the desperate beast paused and, rearing recklessly high in the
air, fell backward hoping to crush his rider under his saddle. In the
instant, while he towered, poised in the air, Mose shook his right foot
free of the stirrup and swung to the left and alighted on his feet,
while the fallen horse, stunned by his own fall, lay for an instant,
groaning and coughing. Under the sting of the quirt, he scrambled to his
feet only to find his inexorable rider again on his back, with merciless
spurs set deep in the quick of his quivering sides. With a despairing
squeal he set off in a low, swift, sidewise gallop, and for nearly an
hour drummed along the trail, up hill and down, the foam mingling with
the yellow dust on his heaving flanks.

When the broncho's hot anger had cooled, Mose gave him his head, and
fell to thinking upon the future. He had been more than eight years in
the range and on the trail and all he owned in the world was a saddle, a
gun, a rope, and a horse. The sight of Cora, the caressing of little
Pink, and Mary's letter had roused in him a longing for a wife and a
shanty of his own.

The grass was getting sere, there was