“See that hoss sunfishin’!” burst out another.
“An’ corkscrewin’!” added a third.
“Better ’n a outlaw!” amplified a fourth.
And now the first again: “Stay with him, Alex! I got two dollars–Oh, hell!”–this disgustedly. “Come out o’ that corner!” Then suddenly he turned, face red as fire, and apologized to Helen. “I beg your pardon, Miss Richards,” he offered, meekly. But he turned back to the spectacle and promptly forgot all else in his returning excitement. “Shoot it to him, Alex!” he yelled. “Shoot it; shoot it! He’s a helldinger, that hoss!” Frenziedly he then yawped, cowboy fashion: “Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip! Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip!”
Yet Helen–poor Helen!–had not heard. Holding her breath in tense fear, eyes upon her pride fighting his fight of pride, half hopeful that he would win, yet fearful of that very thing, she watched the strife of man skill against brute strength, keyed up almost to snapping-point.
But her horse did not win. Neither did he lose. She saw him take up, one after another, every trick known to those familiar with horses, and she marveled greatly at his unexpected knowledge of things vicious. Along one side of the inclosure, across the side adjacent to it, back along the side opposite to the second, then forward along the first again–thus round the corral–he writhed and twisted in mighty effort, bucking and pitching and whirling and flinging, the while the sun rose higher in the morning sky. Spectators clambered down from the fence, stood awhile to relieve cramped muscles, clambered on the fence again; but the horse fought on; coat necked with white slaver, glistening with streaming sweat in the sunlight, eyes wild, mouth grim, ears back, he fought on and on till it seemed that he must stop through sheer exhaustion. But still he fought, valiantly, holding to the battle until, with a raging, side-pitching twist, one never before seen, he lost his footing, plunged to the ground, tore up twenty feet of earth, crashed headlong into the fence, ripped out three boards clean as though struck by lightning–lay motionless in a crumpled heap.
The man was thrown. He arose hastily. As he wiped away his perspiration and grime he saw blood on his handkerchief. He was bruised and bleeding, and wrenched inwardly, yet when Pat, returning to consciousness, hastily gained his feet, the man leaped for the horse, sounding a muffled curse. But he did not mount. And for good reason. For Pat was reeling like a drunken man–head drooping, fore parts swaying, eyes slowly closing. At the sight one of the spectators made a plea in Pat’s behalf.
“Whyn’t you take him outside?” he demanded. “Into the open. This ain’t no place to bust a horse like him! That horse needs air! Get him out into about three-quarters of these United States! Git ginerous! Git ginerous! I hate a stingy man!”
Whereupon Helen at last found voice. “Wait!” she cried, evenly, and, turning, sped along the fence to the gate. Inside the corral she hurried to the horse and flung her arms around his neck. “Pat dear,” she began, tenderly, “I am so sorry! But it’s ’most over with now, if you’ll only accept it! Can’t you see, Pat? It is so very necessary to both of us! For then I myself can ride you! Please, Pat–please, for my sake!” Whereupon Pat, as if all else were forgotten–all the torture, all the struggle and shock–nickered softly and nuzzled her hands for sugar and apples. Suppressing a smile, and accepting this as a good omen, she stroked him a few times more and then stepped back. “Later, dear!” she promised and left him, suddenly mindful of spectators. But, though she felt the blood rush into her cheeks, she did not leave the inclosure. The horse-breaker stepped resolutely to Pat and, laying firm hands upon the bridle, waited a moment, eying Pat narrowly, then flung up into the saddle. Pat’s sides heaved, his knees trembled, but he did not resist. Eyes trained upon his mistress, as if he would hold her to her promise, he set out peacefully, and of his own volition, across the inclosure. Further, even though he could not see his mistress now, he turned in response to the rein and started back across the inclosure. And he kept this up, holding to perfect calm, breaking into a trot when urged to it, falling back into a walk in response to the bridle, round and round and round until, with a grunt of satisfaction, the man dismounted close beside the girl and handed her the reins.
“Rides easy as a single-footer, Miss Richards,” he declared. “Where can I wash up?”