The owner of the herd was screaming with, merriment, Jim Nance was slapping his sides as he ran, while the Professor was making for the fat boy with long strides.

Tad reached Stacy first.  The fat boy lay blinking, looking up at him.  Stacy’s clothes were pretty well torn, though his body did not seem to be harmed beyond the loss of considerable skin.

“Let me have that rope,” commanded Tad.

“N-n-no you don’t.”

“Let me have that rope, I tell you.  I’ll attend to the pinto for you.”

“Here, give it to me,” ordered Jim Nance, reaching for the rope which Tad Butler had taken.

“I can handle him, Mr. Nance.”

The “handling” was not easy.  Tad was hauled over the best part of an acre of ground ere he succeeded finally in getting an opportunity to cast his own rope.  When, however, he did make the cast, the rope caught the pinto by a hind foot, sending the stubborn little beast to the ground.  Then Tad was jerked this way and that as the animal sought to kick the foot free.

“Grab the neck rope some of you,” he cried.

Nance was the first to obey the command.  It was the work of but a moment temporarily to subdue the pinto.

“Take him back.  We don’t want the critter,” ordered the guide.

“I—–­I want him,” declared Stacy, limping up to the former sleepy beast.

“I’ll break him so I guess Stacy can ride him,” said Tad.  “Ned, will you fetch my saddle and bridle?  I can’t let go here just yet.  Has this fellow ever been ridden?” demanded the boy, looking up at the owner.

“I reckon he has, but not much.”

“Why did you let Brown rope the pinto, then?”

“He said he wanted him.”

“Let him up,” directed Tad.  The mustang had another spell, but ere he had finished his bucking Tad had skillfully thrown the saddle on and made fast the saddle girth at the risk of his own life.  Next came the bridle, which was not so easily put in place.  It was secured at last, after which the lad stepped back to wipe the perspiration from his face and forehead.  Dark spots on his khaki blouse showed where the sweat had come through the tough cloth.

“Now I’ll ride him,” Butler announced.

For the next quarter of an hour there followed an exhibition that won the admiration of all who saw it.  All the bucking and kicking that the pinto could do failed to unseat Tad Butler.  When finally he rode back to the group, Mr. Mustang’s head was held straight out.  Once more the sleepy look had come into his eyes, but it was not the same crafty look that had been there before.  He was conquered, at least for the time being.

“Now, Chunky, you may try him.”

“What do you think of that for riding?” demanded Stacy, turning to the guide.

“Oh, he’ll ride one of these days,” answered the guide.

“I believe you’re a grouch,” snorted the fat boy, as he swung into the saddle, quickly thrusting his toes into the stirrups, expecting to be bucked up into the air.