The three big corrals were crowded with a bellowing, churning, restless mass of cattle, big, long-horned steers for the most part, and vicious-looking.  In a much smaller inclosure were a few saddle-horses—­half-broken colts, to look at them—­thrusting their long noses above their fence to stare at the seething jam of cattle, or, with tails and manes flying, to run here and there snorting.  Two men on horseback were sitting idly near the corrals, seeming to have nothing in all the world to do but smoke cigarettes and watch the milling cattle.

Conniston drew rein with his companions as they stopped for a word with the two men from the Lone Dog.  And then he followed them when they turned and rode to the little corral.  The horses in it bunched up, quick-eyed, alert, at the far side of the inclosure.  Rawhide Jones and Toothy as they rode were taking down the ropes coiled upon their saddles.

“We’re goin’ to change hosses here,” Rawhide said, shortly.  “Pick out one for yourse’f, Conniston.”

They had ridden into the corral, their ropes in their hands, each man dragging a wide loop at his right side.  Toothy rode swiftly into the knot of horses, scattered them, and, as they shot across the corral, sent his rope flying out over their heads.  The long loop widened into a circle, hissed through the air, and settled about the neck of a little pinto mare, tightening as it fell.  A quick turn about the horn of his saddle, and Toothy set up his own horse.  The pinto mare, checked in her headlong flight, swung about, confronting her captor with quivering nostrils and belligerent, flashing eyes.  Almost at the same instant Rawhide’s rope obeyed Rawhide’s hand as Toothy’s had done, settling unerringly about the neck of a second horse.  And Conniston, with grave misdoubtings and a thumping heart, took his own rope into his hand and rode among the untamed brutes, one of which he was to ride.

Here was another thing which seemed, upon the face of it, so simple and which was simple—­to the range born and bred.  He knew that there were four men watching him as he fumbled awkwardly with his rope.  He knew that in spite of their grave faces they were laughing inwardly.  He found that to hold the coil of rope in his left hand while that same hand must keep a tight rein upon his mount, to whirl the widening loop with his right, throwing it at just the right second with just the right force, was one of the things which in pictures looked to be so easy and which were not at all easy to accomplish.  He grew hot and red as he became entangled in his own rope.

At last he selected a big roan and threw his rope.  He threw awkwardly and a second too late.  The loop fell fifteen paces behind the horse, who had seen, understood, and shot by in a flash.  Again he coiled his rope, drawing it in to him as he had seen the others do; again he threw, and again he missed.  He heard Rawhide Jones curse softly, contemptuously.