The horse, at the touch of the spur, jumped to a gallop. Bob felt a sudden sick sense of helplessness. The earth was cut out from under him. He crouched low and tried to cling to the slippery hide as it bounced forward. Each leap of the bronco upset him. Within three seconds he had ridden on his head, his back, and his stomach. Wildly he clawed at the rope as he rolled over.
With a yell the rider swung a corner. Bob went off the hide at a tangent, rolling over and over in the yellow four-inch-deep dust.
He got up, dizzy and perplexed. His best suit looked as though it had been through a long and severe war.
A boyish puncher came up and grinned at him in the friendliest way. “Hello, fellow! Have a good ride?”
Bob smiled through the dust he had accumulated. “It didn’t last long.”
“Most generally it don’t. Come in to Dolan’s an’ have a drink.” He mentioned his name. It was Dud Hollister.
“Can’t.” Bob followed an impulse. “Say, how do you get married?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“I don’t,” Dud answered promptly. “Not so long as I’m in my right mind.”
“I mean, how do I?” He added sheepishly, “She’s in the buckboard.”
“Oh!” Dud fell to sudden sobriety. This was serious business. “I’d get a license at the cou’t-house. Then go see Blister Haines. He’s the J. P.”