When he came to, Mrs. Bailey was kneeling beside him and ringed around were the curious faces of the cowboys.

“I’m the Ridin’ Kid from Powder River,” muttered Pete.  “Did I make it?”

“That horse liked to killed you,” said Mrs. Bailey.  “If I’d ‘a’ knew the boys was up to this . . . and him just a boy!  Jim Bailey, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Ma Bailey wiped Pete’s face with her apron and put her motherly arm beneath his head.  “If he was my boy, Jim Bailey, I’d—­I’d—­show you!”

Pete raised on his elbow.  “I’m all right, mam.  It wa’n’t his fault.  I said I could ride that hoss.  Did I make it?”

“Accordin’ to your watch here,” said the puncher who held Pete’s irresponsible timepiece, “you rid him for four hours and sixteen minutes.  The hands was a-fannin’ it round like a windmill in a cyclone.  But she’s quit, now.”

“Do I git the job?” queried Pete.

“You get right to bed!  It’s a wonder every bone in your body ain’t broke!” exclaimed Ma Bailey.

“Bed!” snorted Pete.  He rose stiffly.  His hat was gone and one spur was missing.  His legs felt heavy.  His neck ached; but his black eyes were bright and blinking.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Bailey.  “Why, the boy is comin’ to all right!”

“You bet!” said Pete, grinning, although he felt far from all right.  He realized that he rather owed Mrs. Bailey something in the way of an expression of gratitude for her interest.  “I—­you, you sure can make the best pie ever turned loose!” he asserted.

“Pie!” gasped the foreman’s wife, “and him almost killed by that blue devil there!  You come right in the house, wash your face, and I’ll fix you up.”

“The kid’s all right, mother,” said Bailey placatingly.

Mrs. Bailey turned on her husband.  “That’s not your fault, Jim Bailey.  Such goin’s-on!  You great, lazy hulk, you, to go set a boy to ridin’ that hoss that you dassent ride yourself.  If he was my boy—­”

“Well, I’m willin’,” said Pete, who began to realize the power behind the throne.

“Bless his heart!” Mrs. Bailey put her arm about his shoulders.  Pete was mightily embarrassed.  No woman had ever caressed him, so far as he could remember.  The men would sure think him a softy, to allow all this strange mothering; but he could not help himself.  Evidently the foreman’s wife was a power in the land, for the men had taken her berating silently and respectfully.  But before they reached the house Pete was only too glad to feel Mrs. Bailey’s arm round his shoulders, for the ground seemed unnecessarily uneven, and the trees had a strange way of rocking back and forth, although there was no wind.

Mrs. Bailey insisted that he lie down, and she spread a blanket on her own white bed.  Pete did not want to lie down.  But Mrs. Bailey insisted, helping him to unbuckle his chaps and even to pull off his boots.  The bed felt soft and comfortable to his aching body.  The room was darkened.  Mrs. Bailey tiptoed through the doorway.  Pete gazed drowsily at a flaming lithograph on the wall; a basket of fruit such as was never known on land or sea, placed on a highly polished table such as was never made by human hands.  The colors of the chromo grew dimmer and dimmer.  Pete sighed and fell asleep.