Now the horse which he was riding began to plunge and rear, frightened at the rope which now fell upon its back, now struck its flanks in the unskilled hands of the man who was growing the more awkward as his anger surged higher within him.

“You blame fool!” yelled Rawhide Jones.  “What in hell are you tryin’ to do?  Want to throw your own cayuse?”

Conniston glared at him and again coiled his rope.  The big roan was once more surrounded by a crowd of his fellows, his ears erect, his long neck outstretched, his eyes watchful and distrustful.  The man who was beginning to look upon lassoing as a sheer matter of sleight of hand made his loop again carefully, slowly, trying to convince himself that here was an easy matter, and that the next time he should succeed.  And even as he began whirling it above his head, one half of both mind and muscle given over to restrain his nervous mount, he saw another rope shoot out from behind him and settle, tightening, about the roan’s neck.

“Bein’ as we ain’t got all summer to practise up lass’in’ bosses,” Toothy murmured, apologetically.

Conniston tied his rope to his saddle-strings in silence.  After all, there was something to do beyond sit in a saddle.  And he soon found that even that was not always play.  For the roan which he had selected fought at having the saddle thrown upon his back, so that Toothy had to lend a helping hand.  And when the cinch was drawn tight he fought at being mounted.  He had been broken, at least—­and at most—­as much broken as the rest of the three and four year olds in the corral.  But he had not been ridden above a dozen times, and certainly had not known the feel of rope or bridle or saddle for months.  When at last Conniston got his foot into the stirrup and swung up, violating all range ethics by “pulling leather,” the colt shot through the gate of the corral which Rawhide Jones had thrown open, and across the uneven plain, determined, since he could not run away from his enemy, to run away with him.

At home Conniston was accounted an excellent horseman.  That meant that he was used to horses, that he rode gracefully, that he was not afraid of them.  Horses like the maddened, terrified brutes in the corral, like the quivering, frantic thing he precariously bestrode, he had never even seen.  And still, because he was doggedly determined not to fail in everything, because he knew that the men who were watching were enjoying themselves hugely and that they would be greatly delighted to see him thrown, he at last stopped his horse, and with spur and quirt urged him back to the corrals.  The roan still fought, still half bucked.  But he had not entirely forgotten his past defeats in encounters like this, and finally allowed himself to be mastered.

Then began the real day’s work.  There were perhaps fifty cows and young heifers in the corrals which were to be left behind, as only the steers were to be driven across country to the Sunk Hole.  While Rawhide Jones and Toothy rode into one of the corrals Conniston was to sit his horse at the open gate, allowing the steers to run by him into the open, but heading off any of the smaller cattle.  The two Lone Dog men were together working another corral.