About this time Uncle Hank brought home a steel blue roan—a snorting, up-headed, four-year-old whose neck had never felt a rope, whom Buster and Shorty, between them, with the genial irony of the cowpuncher, re-named Creeping Mose, because he could run like a streak of blue lightning.
“He’s been let go so long that it’s a question whether he’ll ever be plumb gentled now,” said Hank, “But he’s a powerful good animal, and I took a chance on him.”
Hilda, who had ridden out to meet the herd and was having dinner at the wagon, could not keep her eyes off the new horse. A smile passed between her and Uncle Hank, but nothing was said at that time, beyond Hilda’s declaration that she was coming down to the corral next day to watch the breaking.
Uncle Hank let her accompany him the next morning. At sight of the horse, head up, ears pricked, snuffing the air suspiciously, Hilda could not restrain her enthusiasm.
“Oh, Uncle Hank, I would love to have him for mine!” she whispered. “I never have had a horse that was really fast. He’s not vicious—only just spirited and unbroken. I know I could ride him after the boys have topped him a few times.”
“There ain’t a thing on earth about a hoss that you don’t think you can do,” grumbled old Snake, fastening the gate behind them. “You’re fixin’ to get yourself killed. Pearsall ought to keep you out of the corral.”
Hank had passed on to talk to Buster. It was Shorty who jeered the pessimist.
“G’wan, Thompson—whose corral is it? If you don’t know, let me introduce you to Miss Van Brunt, owner of the Three Sorrows. Hilda, you just shin up on the fence if you want to see the fun. Buster’s going to top him first. Bet a nickel the blue sends him to grass.”
The roan was roped, thrown, blinded and saddled, Buster was up at last and with the cry, “Turn loose!” they were off, the horse traveling in a series of bucks straight around the corral. But he attempted no murderous tactics; he was only for shaking off the man on his back; and he moved with such swiftness and beauty of action as is not often seen in a range-bred horse.
“Can’t I have him for mine—oh, can’t I, Uncle Hank?” Hilda shouted unrestrainably from the top of the fence, where she clung watching.