“‘Bout my ridin’ that hoss?  Well, I ain’t.  I’m kind of a stranger up here, and I reckon you fellas think, because that doggone ole soap-foot fell down with me, that I can’t ride ’em.”

“Oh, mebby some of ’em,” laughed Bailey.

Pete’s black eyes flashed.  To him the matter was anything but a joke. 
“You give me a job if I stick on that hoss for fifteen seconds?  Why,
I’m game to crawl him and see who wins out.  If I git pitched, I lose. 
And I’m taking all the chances.”

“Throw a saddle on him and give the kid a chanct,” suggested a cowboy.

Bailey turned and looked at Pete, whose eyes were alight with the hope of winning out—­not for the sake of any brief glory, Pete’s compressed lips denied that, but for the sake of demonstrating his ability to hold down a job on the ranch.

“Rope him, Monte,” said Bailey.  “Take the sorrel.  I’ll throw the kid’s saddle on him.”

“Do I git the job if I stick?” queried Pete nervously.

“Mebby,” said Bailey.

Now Pete’s watch was a long-suffering dollar watch that went when it wanted to and ceased to go when it felt like resting.  At present the watch was on furlough and had been for several days.  A good shake would start it going—­and once started it seemed anxious to make up for lost time by racing at a delirious pace that ignored the sun, the stars, and all that makes the deliberate progress of the hours.  If Pete could arrange it so that his riding could be timed by his own watch, he thought he could win, with something to spare.  After a wild battle with the punchers, Blue Smoke was saddled with Pete’s saddle.  He still fought the men.  There was no time for discussion if Pete intended to ride.

“Go to ’im!” cried Bailey.

Pete hitched up his chaps and crawled over the bars.  “Jest time him for me,” said Pete, turning to the cowboy who held his watch.

The cowboy glanced at the watch, put it to his ear, then glanced at it again.  “The durn thing’s stopped!” he asserted.

“Shake her,” said Pete.

Pete slipped into the saddle.  “Turn ’im loose!” he cried.

The men jumped back.  Blue Smoke lunged and went at it.  Pete gritted his teeth and hung to the rope.  The corral revolved and the buildings teetered drunkenly.  Blue Smoke was not a running bucker, but did his pitching in a small area—­and viciously.  Pete’s head snapped back and forth.  He lost all sense of time, direction, and place.  He was jolted and jarred by a grunting cyclone that flung him up and sideways, met him coming down and racked every muscle in his body.  Pete dully hoped that it would soon be over.  He was bleeding at the nose.  His neck felt as though it had been broken.  He wanted to let go and fall.  Anything was better than this terrible punishment.

He heard shouting, and then a woman’s shrill voice.  Blue Smoke gave a quick pitch and twist.  Pete felt something crash up against him.  Suddenly it was night.  All motion had ceased.