Man, that animal done everything except fly, and at that the danged thing went high enough to convince the most skeptical that all it needed was a short pair of wings to make good in that respect. First it gives a correct imitation of a post-hole digger, and then it goes down that gully, changing ends like a whirligig. I’ve got my wish-bone hooked over Dirty’s shoulder, and every hop I can feel my finger slipping higher and higher up that cantle.
Sandy rides a double-rig saddle, and when we hits the first turn of the gully I feels the rear cinch bust. From that on it’s like riding a rocking-chair over sticks of dynamite.
The roan bucks along the edge of the washout, the bottom of which is about ten feet below us, and I just starts to yelp, “Don’t get scared, Dirty; she won’t buck down there,” when we hit the bottom, and I bit my tongue over the first word.
My vertebræ comes together like a string of box-cars getting hit by a wild engine, and then we yanked out of there and went angling up the hill as fast as that bronc can run.
“Still alive?” I yelps.
“From my chin on up!” he yells. “Wonder what this fool wants to climb the hill for, Ike?”
“Can’t you stop her?” I asks.
“Bridle’s gone, Ike. Ha-a-a-ang on!”
We found out why the roan wanted to get a down-hill pull on us, ’cause as soon as we hit the grade the animal inagurates a new style of bucking. Was it effective? Oh, man, I’d rise to remark it was. I just hung on and prayed. I used up all the white man’s religion I ever heard about, and I’m just beginning to make medicine to the totem of the Alaskan Siwash when the cinch breaks.
I feels myself float into space, and then I goes out in a blaze of bright lights. After while Old Man Misery seems to come along and runs his fingers all over my carcass, and then I opens my eyes. I’m laying on my back with my feet up the side of a rock, and a short distance from me is Dirty, hanging by the back of his shirt to an old mesquite-snag.