The hoofs were
sound, the backbone prominent, but not a high ridge from famine or much
hard riding, and the indomitable hate in the eyes of the mustang seemed
to please the cowpuncher.
It was a struggle to bridle the beast, which was accomplished only by
grinding the points of his knuckles into a tender part of the jowl to
make the locked teeth open.
In saddling, the knee came into play again, rapping the ribs of the
brute repeatedly before the wind, which swelled out the chest to false
proportions, was expelled in a sudden grunt, and the cinch whipped up
taut. After that Nash dodged the flying heels, chose his time, and
vaulted into the saddle.
The mustang trotted quietly out of the barn. Perhaps he had had his fill
of bucking on that treacherous, slippery wooden floor, but once outside
he turned loose the full assortment of the cattle-pony's tricks. It was
only ten minutes, but while it lasted the cursing of Nash was loud and
steady, mixed with the crack of his murderous quirt against the roan's
flanks. The bucking ended as quickly as it had begun, and they started
at a long canter over the trail.
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