Lige, upon mounting—under the suspicion that the mustang was disposed for a fling—had clutched firmly with his legs; and these, on account of their extreme length, completely enveloped the body of the animal, so that his heels met underneath. He had forgotten his new spurs, the rowels of which, six inches in diameter, irritated the mustang, and were no doubt the cause of such violent kicking. These, after a few turns had got “locked,” and of course held Quackenboss as firmly as if he had been strapped to the saddle. But as the rowels were now buried in the ribs of the mustang, the fierce brute, maddened with the pain, only grew more furious at each fling, and it was natural enough he should do his utmost to rid himself of so cruel a rider.
How long he might have kept up the pitching frolic before his involuntary tormentor could have freed himself, is a matter of conjecture. It would have been an unfortunate “fix” to have been placed in, alone upon the prairies.
Lige, however, found a compassionate bystander; who, having flung his lazo around the neck of the mustang brought the spectacle to a termination.
Chapter Forty Five.
A Lover on the Trail.
Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Quackenboss and his troubles, I despatched the black upon his interesting errand, and with no slight anxiety awaited the result.
From my position on the roof, I saw my messenger climb the hill, leading the proud steed, and saw him enter the great portal of the hacienda.
Promptly—almost directly—the groom came out again without the horse. The present had been accepted. So far well.