But Marianne did not hear Corson’s remark.  She watched Rickety slacken his run as that longdrawn yell began, so wild and high that it put a tingle in her nose.  Now he was trotting, now he was walking, now he stood perfectly still, become of a sudden, an abject, cowering figure.  The shout of the spectators was almost a groan, for Rickety had been beaten fairly and squarely at last and it was like the passing of some old master of the prize ring, the scarred veteran of a hundred battles.

“What happened?” breathed Marianne.

“Rickety’s lost his spirit,” said Corson.  “That’s all.  I’ve seen it come to the bravest men in the world.  A two-year-old boy could ride Rickety now.  Even the whip doesn’t get a single buck out of the poor rascal.”

The quirt slashed the flank of the piebald but it drew forth only a meek trot.  The terrible Rickety went back to the corrals like a lamb!

“Arizona’s got a good man to beat,” admitted Corson, “but he’s got a chance yet.  They won’t get any more out of Rickety.  He’s not only been rode—­he’s been broke.  I could ride him myself.”

“Mr. Corson,” said Marianne, full of an idea of her own, “I’ll wager that Rickety is not broken in the least—­except for Red Perris.”

“Meaning Perris just sort of put a charm on him?” suggested Corson, smiling.

“Exactly that.  You see?”

In fact, the moment Perris slipped from the saddle, Rickety rocked forward on his forelegs and drove both heels at one of the reckless who came too near.  A second later he was fighting with the activity and venom of a cat to get away from the ropes.  The crowd chattered its surprise.  Plainly the fierce old outlaw had not fought his last.

“What did Perris do to the horse?” murmured Marianne.

“I don’t know,” said Corson.  “But you seem to have guessed something.  See the way he stands there with his chin on his fist and studies Rickety!  Maybe Perris is one of these here geniuses and us ordinary folks can only understand a genius by using a book on him.”

She nodded, very serious.

“There is a use for fighting men, isn’t there?” she brooded.

“Use for ’em?” laughed Corson.  “Why, lady, how come we to be sitting here?  Because gents have fought to put us here!  How come this is part of God’s country?  Because a lot of folks buckled on guns to make it that!  Use for a fighter?  Well, Miss Jordan, I’ve done a little fighting of one kind and another in my day and I don’t blush to think about it.  Look at my kid there.  What do you think I’m proudest of:  because he was head of his class at school last winter or because he could lick every other boy his own size?  First time he come home with a black eye I gave him a dollar to go back and try to give the other fellow two black eyes.  And he done it!  All good fighters ain’t good men; I sure know that.  But they never was a man that was good to begin with and was turned bad by fighting.  They’s a pile of bad men around these parts that fight like lions; but that part of ’em is good.  Yes sirree, they’s plenty of use for a fighting man!  Don’t you never doubt that!”