Home Ranch by Ralph Moody Page B

on Clay. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to: the men howled and hollered like a pack of moon-struck coyotes.
    I didn’t look at anybody when I rode Clay out and stripped off my saddle, and I was halfway back to the breaking pen with it when Mr. Batchlett called, “Hey! How about them spurs! Better leave ’em on the outside!”
    With everybody laughing at me—and having to go back to take off my spurs—I was a little careless about the way I saddled old Pinch. He blew his belly up like a balloon when Sid was passing the cinch under him, and I didn’t notice that he was still holding his breath when I yanked the cinch tight and set my knot. “Better hold off a minute and tighten that cinch again!” Sid told me, as I started up the poles to mount, “he’s still as swole up as a bloated calf!”
    I’d fussed around and been laughed at enough, and I wasn’t going to wait and let people think I was afraid to get on Pinch. Besides, I didn’t think the old horse would any more than crowhop. “He’s just hay-bellied, that’s all!” I said, balanced on the top rail, and eased myself down into the saddle.
    I found out how hay-bellied Pinch was in less than two seconds after Sid turned him loose—and I found out what kind of crowhopping he did. That old horse went at the job of unloading me the same way a man would go at chopping wood—except that he made a quarter turn between every down stroke. He didn’t move either forward or back, each jump was just like the one before it, and he didn’t hurry. With a tight saddle, any man—if he had a stout enough neck and backbone—could have ridden him all day without being thrown, but I didn’t have any of them.
    Pinch let out a big groan and a barrelful of air on his first jump, and from there on, the saddle rolled around on him like the skin on a cat. With every thud and turn, it slipped farther forward and to one side, and I got dizzier and dizzier.
    It would have been a disgrace to grab the saddle horn, but I couldn’t even do that. It was way around where my right knee should have been, and I’d had to kick my feet out of the stirrups. I don’t remember much of anything after the first half-dozen jumps, but, when Pinch stopped, I had a death grip on his mane with both hands, and my legs were clamped in front of his shoulders like a collar.
    At first, there wasn’t a sound outside the breaking pen, but the men started laughing again when Sid picked me off. And I heard Mr. Bendt hoot, “By diggity, I’ll say he’s a trick-rider! That kid’s sure got a ridin’ style all his own!”
    The lump came back into my throat, and I was sure I’d made such a fool of myself that I’d always be a joke around the place. But Mr. Batchlett was waiting when I led Pinch out of the pen. He put his hand on the back of my neck and rubbed it around a couple of times, good and hard. Then he said, “I could’a told you what would happen before you climbed aboard, but I reckoned it was best to let the horse learn you. Now you’ll remember to double-check your gear before you step foot in a stirrup. You ought to do all right this summer if you can learn to ride ’em; you got two right smart horses.”
    I still didn’t think much of old Pinch, but I nodded and said, “Yes, sir—and I think I’ll remember.”
    When my turn was coming up for the third go-round, I kneed the last breath of air out of Pinch and hauled my cinch strap as tight as I could get it. Blueboy still hadn’t been picked, and I didn’t want to take a chance with a slipping saddle when I went in after him.
    Hazel hadn’t come near me since I’d made that terrible ride on Pinch’s neck, but she came walking over when we were waiting outside the corral gate. She didn’t mention the ride, or the way I’d slipped and slid