“If you’ll step to the door,” said the doctor, smiling upon the rest, “you’ll have some fun to watch.  I’m going to ride on the piebald.”

“Him that throwed you yesterday?” grinned Buck Daniels.

“The same,” said the doctor.  “I think I can come to a gentleman’s understanding with him.  A gentleman from the piebald’s point of view is one who is never unintentionally rude.  He may change his mind this morning—­or he may break my back.  One of the two is sure to happen.”

In front of the house Dan Barry already sat on Satan with Black Bart sitting nearby watching the face of his master.  And beside them the lantern-jawed cowpuncher held the bridle of the piebald mustang.  Never in the world was there a lazier appearing beast.  His lower lip hung pendulous, a full inch and a half below the upper.  His eyes were rolled so that hardly more than the whites showed.  He seemed to stand asleep, dreaming of some Nirvana for equine souls.  And the only signs of life were the long ears, which wobbled, occasionally, back and forth.

When the doctor mounted, the piebald limited all signs of interest to opening one eye.

The doctor clucked.  The piebald switched his tail.  Satan, at a word from Dan Barry, moved gracefully into a soft trot away from the house.  The doctor slapped his mount on the neck.  An ear flicked back and forth.  The doctor stretched out both legs, and then he dug both spurs deep into the flanks of the mustang.

It was a perfectly successful maneuvre.  The back of the piebald changed from an ugly humped line to a decidedly sharp parabola and the horse left the ground with all four feet.  He hit it again, almost in the identical hoof-marks, and with all legs stiff.  The doctor sagged drunkenly in the saddle, and his head first swung far back, and then snapped over so that the chin banged against his chest.  Nevertheless he clung to the saddle with both hands, and stayed in his seat.  The piebald swung his head around sufficiently to make sure of the surprising fact, and then he commenced to buck in earnest.

It was a lovely exhibition.  He bucked with his head up and his head between his knees.  He bucked in a circle and in a straight line and then mixed both styles for variety.  He made little spurts at full speed, leaped into the air, and came down stiff-legged at the end of the run, his head between his braced forefeet, and then he whirled as if on a peg and darted back the other way.  He bucked criss-cross, jumping from side to side, and he interspersed this with samples of all his other kinds of bucking thrown in.  That the doctor stuck on the saddle was a miracle beyond belief.  Of course he pulled leather shamelessly throughout the contest, but riding straight up is a good deal of a myth.  Fancy riding is reserved for circus men.  The mountain-desert is a place where men stick close to utility and let style go hang.