Next came a white rider, who won the nick-name “Easy Money” by riding a mule up with a surcingle, then another Indian,—they were mostly the youngsters working on local pack-trains,—who began by straddling the neck of his mount and ended by going over the animal’s head, landing flat on his back. A momentary hush, and the fence lizards began collecting around the limp form. The Indian’s round brown face had turned gray.
“Stand back and give ’m air,” megaphoned the starter, fanning him with his hat. Some one brought water, then the Indian opened his eyes, and presently signified a desire to get up. He was helped to his feet. “He’s all right,” was the final verdict as the little group led off the field. “Somebody give ’m a cigarette.” The Indian leaned against the corral fence nonchalantly, lighting up, though with fingers that shook the flame out of several matches.
“Gee!” nudged Ace. “Dad’s motioning us, and if he knows I’ve drawn that bull, he’ll sure––”
“You’re nineteen.”
“Aw, he’s the Gov’ner, just the same. If you had one you’d see. Let’s stick here behind this bunch till my turn comes ’round.”
“Sure you’d better try it?” Ted laid a hand on his chum’s shoulder.
“Sure thing! What’s the use of living if you never take a chance? Besides, you’ve got a reg’lar rocking-horse yourself, huh?” he scoffed.
“That’s all right, I was born ridin’,” Ted made light of it.
It was now time for the bay bull. As a saddle swings around on anything but a horse, it is easier to ride bulls and mules with a surcingle. It took three men to get the bull into the saddling pen, two with lassos and one with a pole, but the strap was finally adjusted around his chest, and the mount made.
One Shorty Somebody was the rider. And Shorty rode him,—stuck clear across the corral. But there the bull torpedoed the middle log of the fence and went straight through, scraping Shorty off.