Carley sat up before Glenn and Flo reached her. Manifestly they were concerned about her, but both were ready to burst with laughter. Carley knew she was not hurt and she was so glad to be off the mustang that, on the moment, she could almost have laughed herself.
“That beast is well named,” she said. “He spilled me, all right. And I presume I resembled a sack of beans.”
“Carley—you’re—not hurt?” asked Glenn, choking, as he helped her up.
“Not physically. But my feelings are.”
Then Glenn let out a hearty howl of mirth, which was seconded by a loud guffaw from Hutter. Flo, however, appeared to be able to restrain whatever she felt. To Carley she looked queer.
“Pitch! You called it that,” said Carley.
“Oh, he didn’t really pitch. He just humped up a few times,” replied Flo, and then when she saw how Carley was going to take it she burst into a merry peal of laughter. Charley, the sheep herder was grinning, and some of the other men turned away with shaking shoulders.
“Laugh, you wild and woolly Westerners!” ejaculated Carley. “It must have been funny. I hope I can be a good sport.... But I bet you I ride him tomorrow.”
“Shore you will,” replied Flo.
Evidently the little incident drew the party closer together. Carley felt a warmth of good nature that overcame her first feeling of humiliation. They expected such things from her, and she should expect them, too, and take them, if not fearlessly or painlessly, at least without resentment.