“You let ’um blue horse ’lone. Blue horse debbil. Unc’ Hankie say let ’um ’lone.”
Hilda had got the bridle on Mose.
“Come here and hold him for me,” she cried. “Come on—quick, Sam. He won’t try to stamp you—he never does. He’ll be all right when I’m up on him. Hurry. He’ll only buck and run.”
The Chinaman came. He took the reins in practiced yellow fingers.
“You die an’ be kill,” he said.
Up went the saddle, but the pony dodged it, lowering himself and flinching away just at the right instant. Again this maneuver was repeated, Hilda, panting, desperate over the loss of time.
“Take your apron off and flap it in his face. Go on, Sam Kee—flap your apron,” she commanded chokingly.
Protesting, refusing, “No! No take off ape’!” Sam Kee obeyed. Once more, Hilda swung the saddle; this time it landed. Almost in the instant of jerking tight the last cinch-strap, she was up.
Creeping Mose hung a moment, as in surprise, then humped his back for the first plunge. She whirled her heavy quirt and brought it down with all her might. Mose, with lowered head stuck out straight, shot through the gate in a series of long leaps.
Sam Kee sat down, legs rigid before him, black eyes blinking, listening to the thunder of the hoofs as Creeping Mose ran like a streak out along the Tres Piños trail.