subsided, when the order was given to mount;
and with others, Quackenboss sprang to his horse. But his hips were
hardly snug in the saddle, when the wicked Comanche "humped" his back,
and entered upon a round of kicking which seemed to exhibit every pose
and attitude of equestrian exercise. First his hind feet, then his fore
ones, then all together, could be seen glancing in the air. Now a hoof
whizzed past the ear of the affrighted rider, now a set of teeth
threatened his thighs, while every moment he appeared in danger of being
hurled with violence to the earth. The sombrero had long since parted
from his head, and the rifle from his hand; and what with the flapping
of the wide trousers, the waving of the loose serape, the dancing of the
steel scabbard, the distracted motion of the rider's arms, his lank
streaming hair, and look of terror--all combined to form a spectacle
sufficiently ludicrous; and the whole crowd was convulsed with laughter,
while the piazza rang with such shouts as "Bravo!"

"Well done, Lige!"

"Hooraw for you, old beeswax!"

But what surprised his comrades was the fact that Quackenboss still kept
his seat. It was well known that he was the worst rider in the troop;
yet, despite all the doubling and flinging of the mustang, that had now
lasted for several minutes, he was still safe in the saddle. He was
winning golden opinions upon the strength of his splendid horsemanship.
The rangers were being astonished.

All at once, however, this mystery was explained, and the cause of his
firm seat discovered. One of the bystanders, sharper than the rest, had
chanced to look under the belly of the mustang, and the next moment
shouted out--

"Hoy! look yonder! by Geehorum, _his spars are clinched_!"

All eyes were lowered, and a fresh peal of laughter broke forth from the
crowd as they perceived that this was in reality the case.

Lige, upon mounting--under the suspicion that the mustang was disposed
for a fling--had clutched firmly with his legs; and these, on account of
their extreme length, completely enveloped the body of the animal, so
that his heels met underneath. He had forgotten his new spurs, the
rowels of which, six inches in diameter, irritated the mustang, and were
no doubt the cause of such violent kicking. These, after a few turns
had got "locked," and of course held Quackenboss as firmly as if he had
been strapped to the saddle. But as the rowels were now buried in the
ribs