She stood well over sixteen hands—a clumsy, big-footed, mean-looking, clean-limbed lady, rough-coated, and scored all over with marks of “savaging.” She was fiddle-headed and as lean as a hay-rake, but in build she was every inch a grand piece of horse-flesh. And Tresler was sufficient horseman to appreciate her lines, as well as the vicious, roving eye which displayed the flashing whites at every turn.
Jacob Smith was after her with a rope, and the onlookers watched his lithe, active movements as he followed her, wildly racing round and round the corral seeking a means of escape.
Suddenly the man made a dart in to head her off. She turned to retreat, but the other two were there to frustrate her purpose. Just for a second she paused irresolutely; then, lowering her head and setting her ears back, she came open-mouthed for Jacob. But he anticipated her intention, and, as she came, sprang lightly aside, while she swept on, lashing out her heels at him as she went. It was the opportunity the man sought, and, in the cloud of dust that rose in her wake, his lariat shot out low over the ground. The next moment she fell headlong, roped by the two forefeet, and all three men sprang in to the task of securing her.
It was done so quickly that Tresler had hardly realized her capture when Jake’s harsh voice rang out—
“That’s your mare, Tresler!” he cried; “guess that plug of yours’ll do for fancy ridin’. You’ll break this one to handlin’ cattle. You’re a tolerable weight, but she’s equal to it.” He laughed, and his laugh sent an angry flush into the other’s face. “Say,” he went on, in calmly contemptuous tones; “she’s wild some. But she’s been saddled before. Oh, yes, she ain’t raw off the grass. You, comin’ from down east, can mebbe ride. They mostly reckon to be able to ride till they come along to these parts.”
Tresler understood the man’s game; he also understood and fully appreciated Joe Nelson’s warning. He glanced at the saddle still hanging on the corral wall. It would be simple suicide for him to attempt to ride an outlaw with a saddle fit for a boy of fifteen. And it was Jake’s purpose, trading on his ignorance of such matters, to fool him into using a saddle that would probably rupture him.
“I presume she’s the worst outlaw on the ranch,” he replied quietly, though his blue eyes shone dangerously. “She must be,” he went on, as Jake made no answer, “or you wouldn’t give her to me, and point out that she’s been saddled before.”
“Kind o’ weakenin’?” Jake asked with a sneer.
“No. I was just thinking of my saddle. It will be no use on her; she’d burst the girths.”
“That needn’t worry you any. There’s a stock saddle there, on the fence.”