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Cassidy, and then said aloud, "Anybody else here?" "Nope." Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand. "Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?" asked Mr. Connors. "Quien sabe?" "Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes," thought Mr. Cassidy.
"This broncho of yours can run, and Lord knows he's game. But you want a big, strong horse, Mexican bred, with cactus in his blood. Take one of the bunch Bull, White Woman, Blanco Jose." "I had a big, fast horse a while back, but I lost him," said Ladd. "This bronch ain't so bad. Shore Bull an' that white devil with his Greaser name they could run down my bronch, kill him in a mile of cactus.
"Are you 'fraid the saddle's goin' to git away from you? Better be 'fraid 'bout the hoss. Git up, Bronch!"
"Now I'll get it," whispered Ladd. "The women'll make a baby of me. An' shore I can't help myself." "Oh, Laddy, you've been hurt!" cried Nell, as with white cheeks and dilating eyes she ran to him and caught his arm. "Nell, I only run a thorn in my ear." "Oh, Laddy, don't lie! You've lied before. I know you're hurt. Come in to mother." "Shore, Nell, it's only a scratch. My bronch throwed me."
As they sat for a moment silent there came the sound of approaching hoof-beats, and presently the cracking and popping of the feet of a galloping horse fell into a duller crunch on the hard ground before the door, and a loud voice called out, "Whoa-hope, Bronch! Hello, in the house!" "Come in, Curly," cried Battersleigh. "Come in. We've business of importhance this mornin'."
Now if you'll just cover friend chef with this sawed-off gat, Elliot, I'll throw the diamond hitch over what supplies we'll need to get back to Kamatlah. I'll take one bronch and leave the other to the convicts," said Holt cheerfully. "Forget that convict stuff," growled Macy. "With Macdonald back of us and the Guttenchilds back of him, you'll have a hectic time getting anything on us."
But they say 't the pitcher 't's always goin' t' the well is bound t' git busted sometime, an' I guess your turn come t' git busted. Anyway " "I didn't get bucked off," broke in Chip, angrily. A "bronch fighter" is not more jealous of his sweetheart than of his reputation as a rider. "A fellow can't very well make a pretty ride while his horse is turning a somersault."
You draw your gat to shoot the bronch and it's bumped out of your hand as you're dragged over the rough ground. See? You save your life by wriggling your foot out of your boot. Can it be done without taking too many chances?" The rider considered. "I reckon it could if a fellow's boot was fixed so he could slip his foot out at the right time. I'll take a whirl at it."
How many horses does the Govment allow?" "None! Buy our own!" "Great Guns! And you're loyal to that kind of Service? It's bally loyal I'd be! Why, Moyese allows me the use of any bronch on his ranch; and, when there's a quick turn to be made, it's a motor car. Why don't you let me send you up a couple of Moyese's nags? You could pasture 'em here and get their use for nothing.
Blandy runs the place." "That Blandy. His faro game's crooked, or I'm a locoed bronch. Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro-dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back-handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Laramie." "Thanks," replied he; and Duane imagined his voice a little husky.
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