Matt and Jerry have ridden two wild horses apiece that morning, so John volunteers to tackle the bay. The horse is still thrashing round at a great rate, but his foot is still tied up and he can do little. John reaches up and knots his handkerchief round the poor beast's eyes, then releases the foot, mounts quickly into the saddle, and leaning forward removes the blindfold. The frightened animal stands still, cowering like a whipped cur or a chicken that sees a hawk circling: above her: he seems to be waiting for the strange, dreadful creature on his back to strike him some fearful blow or sink its claws into his flesh—dreading he knows not what. He bounds forward a few steps—still the burden sticks, and he stops and looks round at it. His fear fades and the courage and energy of his race return; he determines to get rid of this thing that clings so tightly. He leaps forward, runs a few yards full tilt, then stops short, fore legs stiff, hind legs crouching; it's a very sudden jerk, but John hangs on with his knees, leaning far back in the saddle. Again the horse tries the manœuvre; no use; he rears on his hind legs and then on his fore legs; he jumps sideways, bucks, pitches, kicks, without a moment's rest for fifteen minutes. There is no pause, no chance to get a better hold, to take breath; it is a continuous violent paroxysm of motion. At the end of it the bay is well-nigh exhausted and all in a tremble, while John, though pretty well jarred, is calm and master of the situation. The horse at length submits to the superior will, and, magnificent still but now under control, does his best to carry out his master's wishes.
By the time the bay was well in hand and John was ready to take the saddle off and let him go free for the rest of the day, Matt and Jerry had roped another horse and the same tactics were pursued with it. So the work was carried through till dark, each man taking his turn riding horses that had never been bestrode by a living creature before. There was a kind of wild, exhilarating excitement about it, but it was terribly wearing, and the jar and strain were enough to use up a dozen men unaccustomed to the work.
The following day all the horses were ridden again, with less difficulty this time, though they were lively enough to suit any one. Some took a week's training, some a month's, some were never wholly subdued. To this latter class belonged the little buckskin "Outlaw," with which John had had such a lively time and who made his reputation as a broncho buster. The boy and the horse had much to do with each other for a number of years. Their close acquaintanceship came about thus:
The little buckskin was roped regularly every morning, choked down, and after a great deal of struggling, saddled; then some one of the cow-punchers would ride him until he was thoroughly exhausted. This was continued so long that the little horse became but a bag of bones, chafed and bruised, a wreck, but unbroken in spirit. In spite of everything he continued a fighter with each ounce of strength that was in him—a "dead game horse."
"He's an outlaw if ever there was one," said Harris one day. "If we can't give him away we'll have to shoot him, for he's making every other horse wild, though he's near ridden to death."
"Let me have him," said John, who happened to be standing near and overheard the remark. "He's a dead game little beast and I like him. I think I can work him."
"Take him and welcome, kid," said Harris, with an air of relief. "The wilder he is the tougher. Tame him and you'll have a star."
And so John came into possession of the little buckskin, whom he named appropriately "Lightning" or "Lite." Jerry said, when the question of giving him a proper name was under consideration, "I've known several horses named Lightning, but I've never seen a hoss as would fit the name like him." The boy's heart had not so gone out to a horse since Baldy's time, and though the two ponies were very different in appearance and disposition, in after years John found it hard to tell which he most cared for.
Before beginning the training he let up on the terrible strain, the constant struggle, to which "Lite" had been subjected and allowed him to recuperate; he took care of him himself, and later, when he grew stronger, allowed no one else to ride him. Gradually the horse learned to know his master and understood that that master would not ill-treat him; and so there grew up a sort of sympathy between them. "Pitch" he always did when John first mounted him, but he soon settled down to steady business, and a mighty capable beast he proved to be.
Though John found the wages of a broncho buster good, the work was very hard, it being the most violent sort of gymnastics all day long. When night came he was glad enough to sit down and rest; he would, in fact, not have been sorry to turn in right after supper, but the talk and stories the men told were too good to be lost. It was near round-up season and the riders were being gathered, preparatory to starting off on that great yearly summing-up expedition. There were men from all over the United States and Mexico, college-bred men and men of the soil. No man knew the other's history, nor would any one ask questions. There was hardly one but had strange experiences, some of which they told. Then there were songs, many of which were familiar to all and therefore popular. Frank Bridges soon became a favorite with everyone; his good nature and jolly fellowship won him many friends. Moreover, he had a good voice and was constantly called upon to exhibit his ability.