After the wagon had been unloaded and the contents stowed away in the store, Guy assisted Mr. Wilson in taking care of the horses. This was done in a very few minutes, for all that was necessary was to unharness them and turn them loose on the prairie.
“Are you not afraid they will stray away?” asked Guy.
“I don’t care if they do,” replied the ranchman. “I’ve got plenty more.”
“But you might lose them altogether.”
“No fear of that. They’ve got my brand on ’em, an’ everybody knows it. Now,” he added, throwing the harness into the wagon, and leading the way toward a small corral into which twenty or thirty horses had just been driven by an Indian vaquero, “I’ll show you the hoss I’m going to sell you. You can try him now an’ see how you like him, an’ to-morrer you can ride him down to Zeke.”
If there was any part of his hunter life on which Guy, during his day-dreaming, had dwelt with more satisfaction than another, it was that which he expected to spend in the saddle. Although he had never mounted a horse in his life, he had somehow got it into his head, along with his other foolish notions, that he had in him the qualities of which accomplished and fearless riders are made. He would render himself famous, not only by shooting grizzly bears and Indians, but by riding horses that nobody else dared to mount. He hoped during his wanderings to meet that celebrated white pacer, which, according to a certain cheap novel he had read, had often been captured by strategy but never ridden. This famous horse always threw those who attempted to mount him, trampled them to death, and then made off, fairly distancing the fleetest nags that could be brought in pursuit of him.
Guy believed in the existence of this animal as firmly as he believed in the existence of the boy trappers, and hoped some day to own and subdue him; but now that he had a chance to begin his career as a rough rider, he felt very much like backing out. He found that there is a vast difference between thinking about things and doing them. The actions of the horses in the corral frightened him. They were such restless fellows! They danced and curveted, reared, flourished their heels in the air, and dashed about the inclosure like veritable wild horses.
The vaquero, in obedience to his master’s order, entered the corral, lasso in hand, and in a few minutes came out again leading a small, clean-limbed horse, which seemed very much averse to leaving his companions, and showed his disapproval of the whole proceeding by furious kicks and plunges.
“Thar he is!” exclaimed the ranchman. “Twenty-five dollars fur him, an’ that’s dog cheap. Gentle as a kitten, as anybody can see.”
“No,” said Guy, “I can’t see it.”