"Like hell you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not heed their words.
"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."
At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up on Dunbar!
"Come on—let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix you good and plenty—the first time the folks leave the house. And meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."
"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on the low ground.
CHAPTER XXII
THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR
In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.
"Aw—him!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some mornin' and find him gone!"