Both Childress and the man with him entered the corral, crawling under the canvas without regard for dignity. The rope fell true at first cast, and the roan was soon in hand and blindfolded for the saddling, which was accomplished without throwing, despite vigorous protests from the animal.
The widow could see that the horse was of mixed breed, which is likely to produce the worst buckers. It was evident, too, that he had been saddled before, so that it was safe to set him down as an outlaw who would not stay "broke." It was exactly the sort of proposition a man of Childress' daring and strength would enjoy tackling, thought Ethel, as she quieted the filly and settled back into her comfortable saddle to watch every move in the battle for supremacy which she felt certain would be worth while.
The roan snorted a note of defiance as Childress on the nigh side, hung his stirrup for a quick mount.
The widow saw him run his hand over the saddle, give the cloth a tug to assure himself that it was well set, and pull the cinch a couple of holes tighter for luck. The horse stood still, his hind legs well under him, his head, with ears flattened, sinking lower and lower, his tail between his legs.
Seizing the checkstraps of the bridle in his left hand, and taking a firm grip upon the pommel with his right, Childress thrust his boot into the iron stirrup and swung easily to the saddle. They were off, quite as though the outlaw had been a trained actor and had heard his cue.
Squealing and bawling like a mad thing, the horse made a frantic rush for the far side of the corral, pounding the hard ground with his hoofs. As the stretch of canvas loomed up before his eyes, a more impenetrable barrier than a stockade of wood, the beast pulled up with a stop that must have thrown a less expert rider. There followed a spasm of twisting, turning, and bucking in circles, through which the man remained seated, as though a leather part of the ponderous saddle.
"That nag's a sunfisher!" Ethel murmured, as the bronco repeatedly leaped into the air, trying to twist his rider from his back. "And that man Childress is some rider!" His horsemanship was superb.
A cry of alarm escaped her lips as the horse, maddened by the failure of his previous efforts, deliberately reared and threw himself down backward. But her concern for Childress' safety proved uncalled for. At exactly the right second he slipped from under, saving himself, evidently, from even a bruise. As the surprised horse scrambled to his feet, the man flung himself back into the saddle, where he sat prepared for the next series.
Then, after several minutes of further fighting, Ethel saw Childress go hurdling over the roan's head, but only to land on his feet a dozen yards in front. She knew by the ease with which he alighted that he had not been thrown actually, but used a trick of dismounting known to the most skilled "busters," usually resorted to when the rider is tired and the outlaw not yet unwound.
"Whatever else you may be, John Childress," she commented to herself, "you are certainly a past master of busting a bronc!"