"I got to thinking about Hetty and the kid. And then I quit—quit cold—laid down. Just watch me ride ol' Casey Jones to-morrow, though. I'll sure clean that fine gentleman."
I watched him. We all did. It was a joy to behold. The sorrel was in high fettle and the ground was hard. So furiously did Casey Jones pitch—squalling through his gaping mouth at every jump—that one of his hoofs was split in two. Lafe sat him firmly, his poise yielding to every new move of the bronco, and he shouted in delight as he plied quirt and spur. Time and again Casey Jones leaped straight into the air and turned back under his rider. Johnson's head would snap back, but his seat was never shaken, and he raked the sorrel from shoulder to flank-cinch. At last Casey Jones stopped, his legs wide apart, his head drooped and his breath whistling. The Anvil men gazed in silence, but with deep approval.
"Crackee," said a cowboy to me, "the boss is sure some peeler."
"He certainly hasn't forgotten how."
"Me and some of the boys," he went on, "we'd been figuring as how Lafe had sort of lost his nerve. It seemed queer, too, but he's been mighty low-sperited. Did you notice? I reckon that was just a mistake, don't you? It must have been."
"A big mistake," I agreed. "He was just a bit worried. That was all. He'll never be that way again."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
HOW A MOFFATT HENCHMAN WAS OUSTED
Another episode during this roundup gave Lafe a lasting reputation among cowmen for cool judgment.