“Darn, Little One,” he laughed, “you sure have got a sweet tooth—­you gobble that sugar like an Indian squaw eatin’ choc’late candy!”

At last the mare was saddled.  Still holding to the rope, the Ramblin’ Kid, without trying to get the filly to follow, moved over and opened the gate, giving it a push and swinging it wide.  During the performance the Gold Dust maverick stood perfectly still, save for a constant chewing at the iron bit between her teeth.

The Ramblin’ Kid went quietly up to her, coiling the slack of the rope as he advanced.  Without bothering to tighten the reins, but watching closely the look in the maverick’s big brown eyes and the nervous twitching of her ears, he laid one hand on the withers of the outlaw, with the other he grasped the horn of the saddle and slipping his foot in the stirrup swung quickly and lightly on to her back.

For the space of a deep breath the maverick crouched, grew tense in every muscle, slowly arched her back, gathered herself together for a great effort.

A quiet smile curled the lips of the Ramblin’ Kid as he looked down on the curving neck of the beautiful creature.

With a tremendous leap the Gold Dust maverick sprang high into the air, lunging forward while all her hoofs were off the ground.  Her forefeet came down across the back of Captain Jack—­she had all but cleared the little roan.  The shock almost threw the stallion to the ground.  As he surged from under her the filly slid and sprawled on her shoulder and side.  Instantly she was on her feet, the Ramblin’ Kid still in the saddle.  His spurs had not touched the mare—­instead he had been careful not to let their steel points so much as ruffle the golden-chestnut hair of her belly or flank.  Only when the outlaw fell had he thrown forward his right leg and hooked the sharp rowels into the strong fiber of the forward cinch.  With the left hand he loosely held the reins, giving the maverick her head—­the other hand he brushed with a caressing upward movement along her glossy neck.

Twice the Gold Dust maverick circled the corral, plunging, bucking “side-winding,” desperately—­her nose between her knees, squealing pitifully—­as she tried vainly to rid herself of the weight of the Ramblin’ Kid.

“Go to it, Baby Girl, go to it!” he chuckled; “you’ve got to learn!  Sooner or later you’ll find out it can’t be done!” He rode limply, loosely, low in the saddle, and while he made no effort to urge the filly into greater frenzy he did not try in any way to prevent her bucking her hardest in, the futile attempts to hurl him off her back.

The second time the outlaw mare came to the gate she whirled and dashed through the opening, out of the corral, across the open space, past the corner of the front-yard fence and along the road that led up to the bench and toward Eagle Butte.  Captain Jack trotted around the corral once, then followed at a long, swinging gallop.