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Updated: June 29, 2025
"Hang on!" howled a voice from the wagon. That was exactly what he intended to do. The cloud of dust, with Mr. Sparling in the center of it, had not reached them, but his keen eyes already had observed what was going on. "G-g-g-grab the woman!" shouted Phil. His left arm had been thrown about the broncho's neck, while his right hand was groping frantically for the animal's nose.
Take the benefits of Providence with a shout of thanksgiving; but swallow hard and keep a stiff upper lip, when it smacks you over the head with a shillalegh." Then, of a sudden, he bent over in the saddle once more and rested his hand on Weldon's fingers which lay on the broncho's neck.
"Who is we?" asked Seth. "My father and me. He ain't my real father. He's the man what adopted me." Always courteous, Seth stood, hand on plough, waiting for her to state her errand or move on. She did neither. "There be'n't many neighbors hereabout, be there?" she ventured presently, toying with her broncho's mane. "No," said Seth. "They ah mighty scarce. One about every eighteen miles or so."
From the very first the boy had no difficulty in mastering the art of sticking on a broncho's back, partly because he was entirely without fear, but largely because he had an ear and an eye for rhythm in sound and in motion. He conceived clearly the idea by watching French as he loped along on his big iron grey, and after that it was merely a matter of translating the idea into action.
He dug his heels into the broncho's side, and although it had done its day's work, it reached out upon the trail as though fresh from the corral. It bucked malevolently as it went, but it went. It was apparent that no one else had seen the accident. Orlando had been at a point of vantage on a lonely rise about eighty feet above the level of the prairie.
The free life she lived in the face of the mountain winds was doing her good. Sometimes he went at night to the song service, and his rides home alone on the plain, with the shadowy mountains over there massed in the starlit sky, were most wonderful experiences. As he rose and fell on his broncho's steady gallop, he took off his hat to let the wind stir his hair.
It did end, however, rather unexpectedly that particular phase of the conflict. The horse grew weary of the effort, made in vain, to dislodge the stubborn torment on his back. He changed the program with the deadliest of all a broncho's tricks.
Then he pitched forward on his broncho's neck. "Twelve inches make one foot, six feet make one man, sixty men make one troop, four troops make one squadron," the monotonous voice ran on. Then it came to an unexpected finale. "And three squadrons make the Boer army run." The man in the next bed giggled. His wound was in his shoulder, and it had left his sense of humor unimpaired.
He took the broncho's velvety nose in his hands and gave him a rough little shake. Then he patted him smartly on the neck. "For a pocket-size river," he said as he looked at the flood, "this is certainly the infant prodigy. Well, let's try it again." Had the plunge been straight to sudden death that broncho would have risked it unswervingly at the urging of his master.
Not a sound had Beverly uttered for over two hours, but now, leaning forward she clasped both arms around the little broncho's neck, rested her face against his mane, and whispered: "Apache, no Seldon or Ashby can ever be told that they are lying. Do you understand? We are going back to people who don't say such things.
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