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Updated: May 15, 2025
Riding the sky with Venus when he knew very well that his place was out in the big corral, riding some of those broom-tail bronks that he was being paid a salary a good salary for breaking! Mary V thought that her father ought to be told about the way Johnny was spending all his time writing silly poetry about Venus. It was the first she had ever known about his being a poet.
And he loved horses; loved the big-jointed, wabbly legged colts and the round-bodied, anxious mothers; loved the grade geldings and fillies and the registered stock that he kept close to home in fenced pastures; loved the broom-tail bronks that ranged far afield and came in a dust cloud moiling up from their staccato hoof beats, circled by hoarse, shouting riders seen vaguely through the cloud.
"He may prowl," said David Bond, stoutly, "but he does not steal. He is a good, honest Indian." The keeper of The Trooper's Delight laughed immoderately. "Get out! Who ever heerd tell of a' honest Injun? Say!" tauntingly "where'd you an' your broom-tail come from, anyhow?" "From Dodge City." "Dodge City!" the man cried.
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