“Ther boy’s got sand,” muttered Kildare, as he turned away, “but it’s a shame to run him up against such a game as this. He’ll be killed ef Charlie says he’s ter try ter ride Firebrand.”
“And that is what I do say!” cried Indian Charlie. “I said there was a horse on this ranch he couldn’t ride, and I meant Firebrand.”
“Bring out Firebrand,” directed Merriwell, grimly.
CHAPTER XXXI—FRANK MERRIWELL’S RIDE
Frank Merriwell was a natural horseman, and he had often taken pleasure in breaking some obstinate and vicious animal. At the same time he knew well enough that a bucking broncho is about as much like an ordinary unbroken horse as dynamite is like baking powder.
But he had encountered vicious horses in the West. He remembered how, on the ranch of Miles Morgan, in Kansas, he had successfully ridden a man-killing stallion, to the unutterable astonishment of everybody about the place.
From choice Frank would not have attempted to ride a bucker, but he was aroused by the sneering words of Indian Charlie and the manner in which the coward had sought to make him the butt of ridicule.
“I’ll ride the beast if I live!” Frank mentally vowed.
It was useless to try to dissuade him, as the cowboys soon found out.
When Inza learned what he meant to do, she came out and cautioned him, but she had the utmost confidence in his ability.