“Cool, all right,” said Corson judicially.  “And maybe he ain’t just a blow-hard, after all.  There they go!”

It happened very quickly.  Perris had shaken hands with Arizona, then turned and leaped into the saddle.  The ropes were loosed.  Rickety crouched a moment to feel out the reality of his freedom, then burst away with head close to the ground and ragged mane fluttering.  There was no leaning back in this rider.  He sat arrowy-straight save that his left shoulder worked back in convulsive jerks as he strove to get the head of Rickety up.  But the piebald had the bit.  Once his chin was tucked back against his breast his bucking chances were gone and he kept his nose as low as possible, like the trained fighter that he was.  There were no yells now.  They received Rickety as the appreciative receive a great artist—­in silence.

The straight line of his flight broke into a crazy tangle of criss-cross pitching.  Out of this maze he appeared again in a flash of straight galloping, used the impetus for a dozen jarring bucks, then reared and toppled backward to crush the cowpuncher against the earth.

Marianne covered her eyes, but an invisible power dragged her hand down and made her watch.  She was in time to see Perris whisk out of the saddle before Rickety struck the dirt.  His hat had been snapped from his head.  The sun and the wind were in his flaming hair.  Blue eyes and white teeth flashed as he laughed again.

“I like ’em mean,” he had said, “and I keep ’em mean.  A tame horse is like a tame man, and I don’t give a damn for a fellow who won’t fight!”

Once that had irritated her but now, remembering, it rang in her ear to a different tune.  As Rickety spun to his feet, Perris vaulted to the saddle and found both stirrups in mid-leap, so to speak.  The gelding instantly tested the firmness of his rider’s seat by vaulting high and landing on one stiffened foreleg.  The resultant shock broke two ways, like a curved ball, snapping down and jerking to one side.  But he survived the blow, giving gracefully to it.

It was fine riding, very fine; and the crowd hummed with appreciation.

“A handsome rascal, eh?” said Mr. Corson.

But she caught at his arm.

“Oh!” gasped Marianne.  “Oh!  Oh!”

Three flurries of wild pitching drew forth those horrified whispers.  But still the flaming red head of the rider was as erect, as jaunty as ever.  Then the quirt flashed above him and cut Rickety’s flank; the crowd winced and gasped.  He was not only riding straight up but he was putting the quirt to Rickety—­to Rickety!

The piebald seemed to feel the sting of the insult more than the lash.  He bolted across the field to gain impetus for some new and more terrible feat but as he ran a yell from Perris thrilled across the crowd.

“They do that, some men.  Get plumb drunk with a fight!”