“Cork! Cork? Is he a cork? Beg pardon, but I don’t quite understand.”
Somewhat nettled, the Irishman responded:
“Faith, ’tis simple, thinks I. If Connemara, what’s a town, is a good name for a no-account creatur’ of a burro, can’t Cork, what’s a city, be right for a horse? Eh? A city’s finer nor a town an’ a horse nor a donkey, says I.”
“That seems sensible. Cork isn’t as musically, I mean musical, as Connemara, and your broncho isn’t as pretty a beast. But it’s short and easy to say when you get—angry—so often, poor Dennis!”
“Who-a-a, there! Stand still. Be easy, easy, lad! Cork—Cor—rk, C-O-R-K!!”
Carlota backed away and gave the broncho and his master a wide space. She was half-frightened, half-amused, for matters between them had, evidently, reached a crisis. The animal upraised, and so suddenly, that Dennis was unseated and slipped down over its back in a manner neither flattering to his vanity nor helpful to his temper. Then, from somewhere about his person, he produced a short, stout stick, with which he belabored the equally furious beast as if death were the object at which he aimed.
“Oh! you cruel, cruel man! He’ll kill you—or you him! Dennis—Cork! Oh! Dennis, Dennis!” screamed Carlota, lustily.
The wagon, now some distance in front, came to a halt, for the girl’s cries had reached and startled its occupants, so that Mr. Burnham and Jack ran back to see what caused the uproar. Yet, at that critical moment, even they dared not interfere. They ranged themselves beside Carlota and silently watched the strange contest.
“If ’tis a fight ye be wantin’ ’tis a fight ye shall have!” yelled the trackman, now indifferent to everything save the rebellious beast for which he had spent his hardly earned dollars. His blood was up, his spirits rose. “Sure, I thought me daily exercise was gone entirely, seein’ I’d left me friend Mickey behind. Come on, then, I’m the man for ye!” he panted.
The battle which ensued was against all rules of horse training and more in the line of warfare to which the Irishman was accustomed; but, even in the fiercest of the mêlée Dennis retained a firm hold upon the bridle rein. Because of carelessness, he would never again lose his precious broncho. The spectators beheld a dangerous mixture of legs, heads, and hoofs; heard the continued whack, whack, of the shillalah, and anticipated mortal hurt to the ignorant trackman. Then—the mustang lay prone upon the ground and Dennis stood above it—master!