"Flowers for the Collie kid," he said solemnly.
Collie, grave, alert, a little white beneath his tan, called for
Williams to hold the pony. Then the younger man, talking to her
meanwhile, slipped off the bridle and adjusted a hackamore in its place.
He tightened the cinchas. The men had ceased joking. Evidently the kid
meant business. Next he removed his spurs and flung them, with his
quirt, in a corner.
"Just defending yourself, eh, Yuma girl?" he said. "They cut all the
sense out of you with a horse-killin' bit and rip you with the spurs,
and expect you to behave."
"He'll be teachin' her to say her prayers next," observed Bud Light.
"He's gettin' a spell on her now."
"He'll need all _his_ for himself," said Pars Long.
The pony, still nervously resenting the memory of the mouth-crushing
spade-bit, and the tearing rowels, flinched and sidled away as Collie
tried to mount. Her glossy ears were flattened and the rims of her eyes
showed white.
"Jump!" whispered Williams. "And don't rough her. Mebby you'll win out."
And even as Collie's hand touched the saddle-horn, Williams sprang back
and climbed the corral bars.
With a leap the Moonstone rider was in the saddle.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236