“I g-guess so,” said the Scout again.
Dean sprang into his saddle and spoke to the two horses, and they set off at a brisk walk, and instantly the boy leaned forward and clutched the pommel of his small saddle desperately with both thin hands.
“Oh, come, Scout, that will never do—hanging on that way! That’s what we call (‘we,’ he grinned to himself) ‘pulling leather,’ and any regular cow-puncher would rather break his neck than be caught doing it! It simply isn’t done in these circles, old top. Just try letting go, and holding your reins, and keeping the balls of your feet in the stirrups, and sitting easy—like this, see? You can’t fall off, and even if you could, I’m right here to catch you!”
The Scout reluctantly unclasped his small claws and sat erect. He was the color of thriftily skimmed milk, his eyes rolled with terror, and he kept swallowing hard.
Snort, impatient at the snail’s pace, pranced and curvetted, but the boy’s mount went sedately, and Dean kept up a running fire of casual talk, and at the end of ten minutes he could see that his lad was breathing more easily.
“That’s right,” he said, cordially. “Now you’re letting yourself go! Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it fun?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Scout. After an instant, nodding toward the drooping head of his steed, he inquired, “What’s his name?”
“His name is Mabel,” answered Dean, gravely.
“Oh...” said Elmer, pondering. “Is he—” he hesitated delicately, “is he a lady horse?”
“He is a lady horse. Almost, I should say, by the gentleness of this present performance, a perfect lady.”