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Updated: May 8, 2025
The broncho was doing its best it could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times when would its master learn sense? The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land.
"And didn't I ride a broncho that never had had a saddle on his back but once in his life? Say, did I get thrown then?" "He did that," endorsed Stacy Brown, who, because of his well-rounded cheeks and ample girth, was known familiarly among his companions as "Chunky." "I mean, he didn't. And he rode the pony three times around the baseball field, too.
And end it did next day, when Dr. Hope appeared with the carriage, and the bags and saddles were put in, and the great bundle of wild-flowers, with their stems tied in wet moss; and Phil, torn from his beloved broncho, on whose back he had passed so many happy hours, was forced to accompany the others back to civilization.
As further evidence, saddling horses for circle resolved itself, as Weary remarked at the top of his voice to Pink, at his elbow, into "a free-for-all broncho busting tournament."
Then commenced the most exciting struggle for mastery between brute and man that the boys had ever seen. For a moment the broncho stood stock still, paralyzed with surprise and fright. Then he gave a mighty leap into the air in a vain endeavor to unseat the rider. This failing, he snapped viciously at the horseman's leg, which was instantly thrown up out of reach.
He had ridden here with Beth, and therefore the mockery was all the more intense. His inward heat and the outward heat combined to make him savage. There was nothing, however, on which to vent his feelings. Suvy he loved. Perhaps, he reflected, the horse was his one faithful friend. Certainly the broncho toiled most willingly across the zone of lifelessness to bear him on his way.
Mizzoo was one of the men whose duty it was to ride the line all night the line that the young man had guarded all day to keep Walker's cattle from drifting. "Come on, Mizz," called the young man, as the other swung upon his broncho, "I'm going back with you." The lean, leather-skinned, sandy-mustached cattleman uttered words not meet for print, but expressive of hearty pleasure.
He had a letter to deliver; he meant to take it through, though doom itself should yawn across his path. The hour was late; the sun was rapidly sinking. Van pulled up his broncho and debated. Absolute silence reigned in the world of mountains. But if the place seemed desolate, it likewise seemed secure. Nevertheless, death lurked in the trail ahead. Barger was there.
How human muscles can bear the strain he put upon his own must be always something of a mystery. He described curves in the air which would sound incredible; he "swapped ends" with all the ease of a real fighting broncho and came near sending Irish off more than once.
Roy had told his story to a wondering audience, and now, with his plate well filled with mother's best watermelon preserve and citron cake, he was supremely contented, if somewhat tired and sobered. His father continued, his rugged face working as he recalled the anxiety of the day: "I can't see how that broncho ever got out of there alive; can you, boys?
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