The pony shook her
head as he reined her round toward the corral gate. The men stared.
Gleason swore. Billy Dime began to croon a range ditty about "Picking
little Posies on the Golden Shore." The roan's sleek, sweating sides
quivered.
"Here's where she goes to it," said Williams.
"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" shouted the crowd.
Rebellion swelled in the pony's rippling muscles. She waited, fore feet
braced, for the first sting of the quirt, the first rip of the spurs, to
turn herself into a hellish thing of plunging destruction.
Collie, leaning forward, patted her neck. "Come on, sis. Come on, Yuma
girl. You're just a little hummingbird. You ain't a real horse."
With a leap the pony reared. Still there came no sting of spur or quirt.
She dropped to her feet. Collie had cleverly consumed a minute of the
allotted time.
"One minute!" called Williams, holding the watch.
"Why, that ain't ridin'," grumbled an Oro man.
"See you later," said Williams, and several of his companions looked at
him strangely. The foreman's eyes were fixed on the watch.
Collie had also heard, and he dug his unspurred heels into the pony's
sides. She leaped straight for the corral gate and freedom.
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