Carley had inquired the animal’s name from the young herder who had saddled him for her.

“Wal, I reckon he ain’t got much of a name,” replied the lad, with a grin, as he scratched his head.  “For us boys always called him Spillbeans.”

“Humph!  What a beautiful cognomen!” ejaculated Carley, “But according to Shakespeare any name will serve.  I’ll ride him or—­or—­”

So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that sentence.  But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced Carley that she might not have much farther to go.  Spillbeans had ambled along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass waved in the wind.  Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next insubordination, and finally direct hostility.  Carley had urged, pulled, and commanded in vain.  Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her.  The jolt she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body.  Likewise it hurt.  Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented, it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be opposed.  Whenever he wanted a mouthful of grass he stopped to get it.  Therefore Carley was always in the rear, a fact which in itself did not displease her.  Despite his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently no intention of allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.

Several times Flo waited for Carley to catch up.  “He’s loafing on you, Carley.  You ought to have on a spur.  Break off a switch and beat him some.”  Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle rein, which punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with alacrity.  Carley had a positive belief that he would not do it for her.  And after Flo’s repeated efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn, had kept Spillbeans in a trot for a couple of miles Carley began to discover that the trotting of a horse was the most uncomfortable motion possible to imagine.  It grew worse.  It became painful.  It gradually got unendurable.  But pride made Carley endure it until suddenly she thought she had been stabbed in the side.  This strange piercing pain must be what Glenn had called a “stitch” in the side, something common to novices on horseback.  Carley could have screamed.  She pulled the mustang to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain subsided.  What a blessed relief!  Carley had keen sense of the difference between riding in Central Park and in Arizona.  She regretted her choice of horses.  Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding him was a delusion.  Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking chair.  This Western girl, according to Charley, the sheep herder, was not above playing Arizona jokes.  Be that as it might, Spillbeans now manifested a desire to remain with the other horses, and he broke out of a walk into a trot.  Carley could not keep him from trotting.  Hence her state soon wore into acute distress.