“Oh, don’t he buck, though!”

While I was up, somebody struck the horse a sounding thwack with a leathern strap, and when I arrived again the Genuine Mexican Plug was not there.  A California youth chased him up and caught him, and asked if he might have a ride.  I granted him that luxury.  He mounted the Genuine, got lifted into the air once, but sent his spurs home as he descended, and the horse darted away like a telegram.  He soared over three fences like a bird, and disappeared down the road toward the Washoe Valley.

I sat down on a stone, with a sigh, and by a natural impulse one of my hands sought my forehead, and the other the base of my stomach.  I believe I never appreciated, till then, the poverty of the human machinery—­for I still needed a hand or two to place elsewhere.  Pen cannot describe how I was jolted up.  Imagination cannot conceive how disjointed I was—­how internally, externally and universally I was unsettled, mixed up and ruptured.  There was a sympathetic crowd around me, though.

One elderly-looking comforter said: 

“Stranger, you’ve been taken in.  Everybody in this camp knows that horse.  Any child, any Injun, could have told you that he’d buck; he is the very worst devil to buck on the continent of America.  You hear me.  I’m Curry.  Old Curry.  Old Abe Curry.  And moreover, he is a simon-pure, out-and-out, genuine d—­d Mexican plug, and an uncommon mean one at that, too.  Why, you turnip, if you had laid low and kept dark, there’s chances to buy an American horse for mighty little more than you paid for that bloody old foreign relic.”

I gave no sign; but I made up my mind that if the auctioneer’s brother’s funeral took place while I was in the Territory I would postpone all other recreations and attend it.

After a gallop of sixteen miles the Californian youth and the Genuine Mexican Plug came tearing into town again, shedding foam-flakes like the spume-spray that drives before a typhoon, and, with one final skip over a wheelbarrow and a Chinaman, cast anchor in front of the “ranch.”

Such panting and blowing!  Such spreading and contracting of the red equine nostrils, and glaring of the wild equine eye!  But was the imperial beast subjugated?  Indeed he was not.

His lordship the Speaker of the House thought he was, and mounted him to go down to the Capitol; but the first dash the creature made was over a pile of telegraph poles half as high as a church; and his time to the Capitol—­one mile and three quarters—­remains unbeaten to this day.  But then he took an advantage—­he left out the mile, and only did the three quarters.  That is to say, he made a straight cut across lots, preferring fences and ditches to a crooked road; and when the Speaker got to the Capitol he said he had been in the air so much he felt as if he had made the trip on a comet.

In the evening the Speaker came home afoot for exercise, and got the Genuine towed back behind a quartz wagon.  The next day I loaned the animal to the Clerk of the House to go down to the Dana silver mine, six miles, and he walked back for exercise, and got the horse towed.  Everybody I loaned him to always walked back; they never could get enough exercise any other way.