Very deliberately Ben mounted the pony, hitched up the legs of his leather trousers, folded back the brim of the big sombrero, and critically inspected the ponies before him.  One of them, a demoniacal looking buckskin, appeared more vixenish than the others, and very promptly the youth made this selection; but to get in touch of the wily little beast was another matter.  Every time the rancher made a move forward the herd found it convenient likewise to move, and to the limit of the corral fence.  Once clear around the yard the rider humored them; and Scotty, the spectator, felt sure he must be observed.  But Ben never looked outside the fence.

Starting to make the circle a second time, the rancher spoke a single word to the little mustang and they moved ahead at a gallop.  Instantly responsive, the herd likewise broke into a lope, maintaining their lead.  Twice, three times, faster and faster, the rider and the riderless completed the circle, the hard ground ringing with the din, the dust rising in a filmy cloud; then of a sudden the figure on the mustang passed from inaction into motion, the left hand on the reins tightened and turned the pony’s head to the side, straight across the diameter of the circle.  Simultaneously the right dropped to the lariat coiled on the pummel of the saddle, loosed it, and swung the noose at the end freely in air.  On galloped the broncos, unmindful of the trick—­on around the limiting fence, until suddenly they found almost in their midst the animal, man, whom they so feared, whom they were trying so to escape.  Then for a moment there was scattering, reversal, confusion, a denser cloud of dust; but for one of their number, the buckskin, it was too late.  Ben Blair rose in his stirrups, the rawhide rope that had been circling above his sombrero shot out, spread, dropped over the uplifted yellow head.  The little mustang the man rode recognized the song of the lariat; well he knew what would follow.  In anticipation he stopped dead; his front legs stiffened.  There was a shock, a protest of straining leather which Scotty could hear clear beyond the corral, as, checked under speed, the buckskin rose on his hind-feet and all but lost his balance.  That instant was Blair’s opportunity.  He turned his mustang swiftly and headed straight for the centre-post, dragging the struggling and half-strangled bronco; he rode around the post, sprang from the saddle, took a skilful half-hitch in the lariat—­and the buckskin was a prisoner.

Scotty polished his glasses excitedly.  He was wondering how the sleek young men with whom he would soon be mingling in the city would go at a job like that; and he smiled absently.