Helen busied herself getting well out of the way of the infuriated mustang. Roy dragged him to a cedar near by.
“Come now, Buckskin,” said Roy, soothingly, and he slowly approached the quivering animal. He went closer, hand over hand, on the lasso. Buckskin showed the whites of his eyes and also his white teeth. But he stood while Roy loosened the loop and, slipping it down over his head, fastened it in a complicated knot round his nose.
“Thet's a hackamore,” he said, indicating the knot. “He's never had a bridle, an' never will have one, I reckon.”
“You don't ride him?” queried Helen.
“Sometimes I do,” replied Roy, with a smile. “Would you girls like to try him?”
“Excuse me,” answered Helen.
“Gee!” ejaculated Bo. “He looks like a devil. But I'd tackle him—if you think I could.”
The wild leaven of the West had found quick root in Bo Rayner.
“Wal, I'm sorry, but I reckon I'll not let you—for a spell,” replied Roy, dryly.
“He pitches somethin' powerful bad.”