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Page 6
"What, that black bronc'? He's a lively one, Mrs. Gray. Don't
reckon you'll be able to stick on him at all," warned Hi Lang.
"I have fallen off before, sir. Have him roped and brought out.
I'll try him out."
The guide shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the head
wrangler.
"Why take such unnecessary chances!" begged Tom Gray. "Surely
there are plenty of ponies in the bunch that are safe for you to
ride."
"Tom, surely the black one can be no worse than that wild western
pony that I bought last fall and rode. You know he was supposed to
be the last word in viciousness and bucking ability, but I rode
him successfully."
"Very well, go ahead. You won't be satisfied until you have tried
him, but remember, I warned you," returned Grace's husband with
some heat.
"Now, Tom," begged Grace pleadingly. "Please don't be a cross bear
and spoil my trip. You have been so perfectly lovely about it
right up to this moment, that it would be too bad if you were to
get peevish now. If you say I must not, of course I will not try
to ride the animal, but I do so want him."
Tom Gray shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
"Go to it, little woman. You have my full permission to break your
neck if you insist. I will see that little Yvonne keeps your
memory green."
"Oh, Tom! You are such a dear, but I promise you that you won't
have occasion to keep my memory green so far as that mischievous
little black pony is concerned."
Grace Harlowe's confidence in herself was not without good and
sufficient reason. The western pony that she had ridden the
previous winter had demonstrated nearly all the tricks known to
the stubborn broncos of the great west. At first Grace had had
some bad spills, but eventually she learned to outwit her pony and
ride him no matter how savagely he tried to unhorse her.
Not only had Grace learned to ride, in anticipation of another
summer in the saddle, but, under her husband's instruction, she
had taken up revolver shooting, and by spring was capable of
qualifying as an expert, especially in quick shooting at moving
targets. Thus fitted for the strenuous life in the wilder parts of
her native land, Grace looked forward with calm assurance to the
experiences that she knew lay before her.
"Bring out the black," Hi Lang had directed. "Cinch him so tight
it will make him squeal."
When a wrangler's rope caught him, the wiry little animal fought
viciously for a few moments, then suddenly surrendered and was led
out as docile as a lamb.
"Who said that black is vicious?" demanded Hippy Wingate.
"Want to ride him?" asked the guide good-naturedly.
"No. I have a real pony for myself."
"Watch those ears, Grace," warned Tom Gray.
"I am," replied Grace, and Hi Lang, overhearing, grunted his
satisfaction.
The black pony's ears were tilted back at an angle of forty-five
degrees, and there he held them while the saddle was being set in
place, and the girth cinched, both forefeet spread wide apart and
head well down. He winced a little as the girth was drawn a hole
tighter so that the saddle might not slip, but otherwise made no
move, which, the cowboys said, was an unusual thing for him to do.
The pony's sudden surrender was of itself suspicious to those who
were familiar with the western bronco, and the laid-back ears were
significant to them of trouble to come.
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