“’And up and down and round and ‘cross, that top-boss done his best!’” sang Pete as he lugged his saddle into the corral.

“‘All hell can’t glue you to that hoss when he gits headed west,’” Andy misquoted for the occasion.

“You jest swing that gate open when I git aboard,” suggested Pete.  “I’m the Ridin’ Kid from Powder River.”

Andy laughed.

  “The Ridin’ Kid from Powder River
  Ain’t got no lungs nor ary liver,
  Some says it was a blue cayuse . . .”

“Go git you a sack and gather up the leavin’s,” laughed Pete, as he kicked his foot into the stirrup and hit the saddle before Blue Smoke knew what had happened.  Andy swung the gate open.  The horse headed for the mesa, pitching as he ran.  This was not half so bad for Pete as though Blue Smoke had been forced to confine his efforts to the corral.  Pete had long since discovered that when Blue Smoke saw space ahead of him, he was not apt to pitch hard, but rather to take it out in running bucks and then settle down to a high-lope—­as he did on this occasion, after he had tried with his usual gusto to unseat his rider.  There is something admirable in the spirit of a horse that refuses to be ridden, and there was much to be said for Blue Smoke.  He possessed tremendous energy, high courage, and strength, signified by the black stripe down his back and the compact muscles of his flanks and fore legs.  Pete had coveted the horse ever since that first and unforgettable experience in the corral.  Bailey had said jokingly that he would give Pete the outlaw if Pete would break him.  Pete had frequently had it out with Blue Smoke when the men were away.  He had taken Bailey at his word, but as usual had said nothing about riding the animal.

Andy watched Pete until he saw that Blue Smoke had ceased to pitch and was running, when he swung up and loped out after his companion.  He overtook him a half-mile from the ranch, and loped alongside, watching Pete with no little admiration and some envy.  It struck Andy that while Pete never made much of his intent or his accomplishment, whatever it might be, he usually succeeded in gaining his end.  There was something about Pete that puzzled Andy; a kind of silent forcefulness that emanated neither from bulk nor speech; for Pete was rather lithe and compact than “beefy” and more inclined to silence than to speech.  Yet there was none of the “do or die” attitude about him, either.  But whatever it was, it was there—­evident in Pete’s eye as he turned and glanced at Andy—­an intenseness of purpose, not manifest in any outward show or form.

“You sure tamed him,” said Andy admiringly.

“Only for this mornin’,” acknowledged Pete.  “To-morrow mornin’ he’ll go to it ag’in.  But I aim to sweat some of it out of him afore we hit the Blue.  Got the makin’s?”

CHAPTER XV

FOUR MEN