“Why not?”
“Cos there ain’t a puncher on this ranch kin tackle him and I ’low no bloomin’ Tenderfoot is going ter do what an old vaquero kain’t.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Jack, with a quiet smile.
Having blindfolded the pony, a “hackamore” bridle was slipped over his head. To this Dynamite offered no resistance. The blindfold made him quiet and submissive for the time being. When the bridle was in place he was allowed to rise, and before the pony knew it, almost, Jack had the saddle on his back and “cinched” up tightly. This done, the boy threw off his hat, drew on a pair of gloves and adjusted his heavy plainsman’s spurs with their big, blunt rowels.
“All right?” grinned Bud.
“All right,” rejoined Jack in the same quiet tone he had used hitherto. To judge from outward appearances, he was as cool as ice; but inwardly the Border Boy knew that he was in for a big battle.
“Waal, good–bye, kid, we’ll hev yer remains shipped back home,” shouted a facetious puncher from the group perched on the fence.
“Dynamite ’ull send you so high you’ll get old coming down,” yelled another.
“Better let the job out, kid,” said Bud. “We don’t want to commit murder round here.”
“I guess I’m the best judge of that,” spoke Jack quickly. “Get ready to cut loose that rope when I give the word, and take the lasso off the snubbing post.”