At the end of a mile Beaver Boy's exuberance had not subsided. He thrashed out with his heels, and gave a tentative pitch. Farwell, who had been riding slightly behind, ranged up alongside.
"I should think you'd get a quiet horse," he said.
"I'll make this one quiet!" snapped Sheila, for she was still sore, and the hard pace had told on her temper through her bruises. "He's actually beginning to think he can do as he likes with me." Beaver Boy shied to show his independence, and she slashed him mercilessly with the quirt, setting her teeth as he plunged. "You would, would you, you brute? I'll show you!"
Farwell, riding in, grabbed for the headstall.
"Get away!" she flamed. "I'll fight this out with him now."
The question of supremacy took five minutes to settle. At the end of that time Beaver Boy relapsed ignominiously into servitude, smarting from the quirt and dripping sweat. Sheila put all her strength into a final cut. The big bay took it meekly with what was almost a sigh and a trembling quiver.
Farwell had watched the struggle with anxiety. "You won't have any more trouble with him for a while. He's afraid of you now."
"He'd better be. He's been obstinate for months, getting worse all the time. He had some notion in his head that he was merely allowing me to ride him. He did what he liked for a while last night when I was shaken up, and he had to have his lesson. No use letting any one else give it to him. He had to be shown that I was able to do it."
"That's so," said Farwell, "that's sense. The idea of you going out in the storm last night on that brute. No other girl would have done it. It was fine, but it was foolish."
"Nonsense! I'm not afraid of rain or a horse. Could I do anything else? It was up to me."