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Page 28
"Oh, is that all, Glenn?" returned Carley, in feigned surprise. "Why, I
imagined from your tone that Miss Spencer's ride must have occasioned her
discomfort. . . . See here, Glenn. I may be a tenderfoot, but I'm no
mollycoddle."
"My dear, I surrender," replied Glenn, with a laugh. "Really, I'm
delighted. But if anything happens--don't you blame me. I'm quite sure that
a long horseback ride, in spring, on the desert, will show you a good many
things about yourself."
That was how Carley came to find herself, the afternoon of the next day,
astride a self-willed and unmanageable little mustang, riding in the rear
of her friends, on the way through a cedar forest toward a place called
Deep Lake.
Carley had not been able yet, during the several hours of their journey, to
take any pleasure in the scenery or in her mount. For in the first place
there was nothing to see but scrubby little gnarled cedars and drab-looking
rocks; and in the second this Indian pony she rode had discovered she was
not an adept horsewoman and had proceeded to take advantage of the fact. It
did not help Carley's predicament to remember that Glenn had decidedly
advised her against riding this particular mustang. To be sure, Flo had
approved of Carley's choice, and Mr. Hutter, with a hearty laugh, had
fallen in line: "Shore. Let her ride one of the broncs, if she wants." So
this animal she bestrode must have been a bronc, for it did not take him
long to elicit from Carley a muttered, "I don't know what bronc means, but
it sounds like this pony acts."
Carley had inquired the animal's name from the young herder who had saddled
him for her.
"Wal, I reckon he ain't got much of a name," replied the lad, with a grin,
as he scratched his head. "For us boys always called him Spillbeans."
"Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!" ejaculated Carley, "But according to
Shakespeare any name will serve. I'll ride him or--or--"
So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that
sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced
Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans had ambled
along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass
waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next
insubordination, and finally direct hostility. Carley had urged, pulled,
and commanded in vain. Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he
jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was
descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her. The jolt
she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body. Likewise it hurt.
Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented,
it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be
opposed. Whenever he wanted a mouthful of grass he stopped to get it.
Therefore Carley was always in the rear, a fact which in itself did not
displease her. Despite his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently
no intention of allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.
Several times Flo waited for Carley to catch up. "He's loafing on you,
Carley. You ought to have on a spur. Break off a switch and beat him some."
Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle rein, which
punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with alacrity. Carley had a
positive belief that he would not do it for her. And after Flo's repeated
efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn, had kept Spillbeans in a trot
for a couple of miles Carley began to discover that the trotting of a horse
was the most uncomfortable motion possible to imagine. It grew worse. It
became painful. It gradually got unendurable. But pride made Carley endure
it until suddenly she thought she had been stabbed in the side. This
strange piercing pain must be what Glenn had called a "stitch" in the side,
something common to novices on horseback. Carley could have screamed. She
pulled the mustang to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain
subsided. What a blessed relief! Carley had keen sense of the difference
between riding in Central Park and in Arizona. She regretted her choice of
horses. Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding
him was a delusion. Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking
chair. This Western girl, according to Charley, the sheep herder, was not
above playing Arizona jokes. Be that as it might, Spillbeans now manifested
a desire to remain with the other horses, and he broke out of a walk into a
trot. Carley could not keep him from trotting. Hence her state soon wore
into acute distress.
Her left ankle seemed broken. The stirrup was heavy, and as soon as she was
tired she could no longer keep its weight from drawing her foot in. The
inside of her right knee was as sore as a boil. Besides, she had other
pains, just as severe, and she stood momentarily in mortal dread of that
terrible stitch in her side. If it returned she knew she would fall off.
But, fortunately, just when she was growing weak and dizzy, the horses
ahead slowed to a walk on a descent. The road wound down into a wide deep
canyon. Carley had a respite from her severest pains. Never before had she
known what it meant to be so grateful for relief from anything.
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